Choice
by dferveiro
Summary: COMPLETE! Forget the bad childhood theories. Sark chose his path, and Sydney.
1. Part One

CHOICE

            Choice. Sydney never guessed it, but it was all a matter of choice. Sark knew the CIA and Sydney were constantly analyzing him and his actions. He could imagine their comments about how he came to be: 

"Bad childhood." 

"Must have been an orphan." 

"Parents didn't show affection." 

"Programmed by the KGB." 

"Irina brainwashed him." 

"Irina was around---need we say more?"           

            It amused him. Sometimes Sark thought that Sydney tried to see the good in him. Good luck.

            Was she trying to convert him? Doubtful, because she admitted that she saw him as a cold-blooded killer and monster. But she still wondered about him.        

            And how could she not? Sark was very aware of how hot women found him. Add that together with his natural charm, and Sydney was thinking about him in her sleep. She never admitted that, but Sark knew. He could see it in her eyes whenever they met.   

            In addition to imagining him in her mind, Sydney was wondering how he came to be so "bad." All those excuses and theories she and the CIA created were nowhere near the truth. 

            Sark had parents and quite the ordinary family life. He played soccer when he was young with all the neighborhood kids. He chased girls around the playground like 9-year-old boys are supposed to do. He had dinner every night, even homecooked meals by his mom.

            Once a year the family took a trip to London or to Scotland or whatever place that was designated the European hotspot. Growing up was fine---normal.            His parents were still alive and so were his siblings. Irina never sought him out. It was the other way around.          

            And why? Simple. He chose to leave normalcy. It was boring. It was cheesy. It was unreal to him. He wanted more.  So he faked his death and changed who he was. He ditched his Irish accent and adopted English. He styled himself in whatever way worked to his advantage.  

            Some might call his life less as it was now, not more, but he found it exactly as he made it. What he wanted, he obtained. After a bit of research, he learned of Irina. He "interviewed" for a job under her direction. And he advanced from there. It was choice. 

            Sydney could never understand why, but he chose to be Sark. The assassin. The resourceful spy. The charming man in the shadows. Her opponent. This way, he was in control. His life was determined by himself and his actions. His choices.  

            And in order to get closer to her, Sark would accommodate Sydney's theories and sympathetic assumptions. Anything to win her.


	2. Part Two

Part 2

            There was something to be said about waking up early.

            Yeah, it allowed more time to get in an early workout. Part of it was discipline too. But mainly, Sark liked getting up before everyone else just so he could have quiet. There was also the bonus of having his morning room service a lot quicker.

            Room service. Sark stayed in hotels. Sure, he had his hideouts and choice bungalows for longer stays. But lately business was picking up so much, Sark just bounced from hotel to hotel.

            This morning, Sark sat behind closed flowery curtains, sipping a freshly squeezed glass of orange juice and reading the morning news from the light of a 40-watt bulb. As soon as he woke up, he printed off the morning intelligence reports from Irina's sources and his own.

            _Nothing out of the ordinary today_, he noticed as he almost choked on the orange pulp. Satisfied, he shredded the reports in his portable shredder and then headed for the shower.

            Sark checked out of the hotel early, avoiding the later tourists who checked out during the hotel grace period. A limo driver took him to an airstrip, where Sark boarded his waiting jet.

            Well, it wasn't his, but he used it more than Irina did. 

            "Good morning, Mr. Sark," the waiting pilot greeted. Sark nodded at him.

            "Let's go."

            The jet took off within two minutes. 

            The trip was short, but refreshing. Sark went over the intel for his op. He knew it forwards and backwards, but the annoyingly machine-like quality within him demanded he do it again. As the plane went through its final approach in Prague, Sark double-checked his appearance. His silk-woven tie, burgundy, stood out against his gray button-up shirt. Combined with the charcoal pin strip suit, Sark looked like an accountant freshly recruited from a respected MBA program.

            That worked to his advantage at ViCount Biotech. Sark entered with enough charm and confidence to have the receptionist swooning, and enough tentativeness to pass as a job-seeking underling.

            "I'm here for an interview with Mr. …" Sark stumbled with the last name, purposely. "Wi—wil—"

            "Mr. Wilshlegan," the receptionist filled in as she batted her eyes obviously at him. "I'll let him know you're here. Your name?" 

            Sark smiled. "Bryan Culington."

            Though he was well aware this interview was just an excuse for access, Sark was quite annoyed that Wilshlegan made him wait. After five minutes, Sark had to restrain himself from glaring at the melting receptionist. 

            "Mr. Culington?" she called with a flirtatious tone. "Come this way." 

            Mr. Wilshlegan could best be described as a chimp-like man. And, with Sark around, he was also a sitting duck. 

            Sark followed the man obediently to Wilshlegan's office. As soon as he shut the door and sat behind his oversized desk, Sark pulled out a tranq gun from his briefcase and shot the man in the neck.

            He pushed the body to the floor, and immediately started typing furiously through ViCount Biotech's network. The man's computer didn't buy Sark access to what he wanted in the lab, but it did have the location of the lab and its access code.

            With the access code printed firmly in his mind, Sark stood on top of the desk and unscrewed the air vent. He pushed it to the side. 

            He took off his suit jacket, grabbed his tranq gun and pulled himself into the air ducts.

            The mental map to the lab stayed in his mind as Sark crawled quickly. 

            Left, right, another right, and down---the lab. Sark peaked through the vent. Two lab technicians went about their work, unaware they were being observed. Sark gave the vent cover a swift and hard kick. The vent clattered to the ground, with Sark following. He landed on his feet and didn't hesitate to render the two technicians unconscious.

            He noticed the computer-controlled vault immediately and started to it. A login screen popped up, and Sark quickly got through it and to the access code for the vault. His breath stopped momentarily as he waited.

            _Access granted_. The vault opened with a hiss of a walk-in freezer. Sark pulled back the door. Shelves of vials and test tubes rested before him. His eyes scanned over the labels.

            There it was. FZ965. Sark took the vial and pocketed it. He had to move quickly now and get out before Wilshenburg, or whatever his name was, woke up. He also had to get the vial in cool storage within 15 minutes.

            Sark pulled himself up into the ducts again and slithered back. Up, left, another left---

            "Don't move!" came a female voice. Sark froze as he stared ahead in the dark ducts. There in front of him, dressed in dark attire and looking passionately dangerous, was Sydney Bristow. 

            A thousand choice phrases surfaced in his mind, but the genteel façade reigned over.

            "Miss Bristow. Fancy meeting you here," he said. His left hand reached back for his tranq gun, while he studied Sydney's gun inches from his face.

            "Sark, do you honestly think that you can whip out that gun faster than I can pull the trigger, in these tight air ducts?" she said, taunting him. Sark could see her white teeth stand out through the darkness.

            He sighed. "Do you honestly think you can manage me? That's your plan, isn't it? Take the evil Mr. Sark back to the CIA." He almost smiled at her with that, just to goad her.

            Her eyes narrowed to slits. "I could just kill you."

            Sark laughed.

            "While I know our conversation up here isn't the most discreet given our agenda, shooting me is sure to attract attention from security," he said.

            "Hand over the vial, Sark."

            He smirked at her, his icy eyes laughing at the idea.

            "Your gun too," Sydney added. A faint grin traced her lips, and Sark knew she was enjoying this power.

            He also knew it wouldn't last.

            For the sake of ease given their confines, Sark complied with her orders.

            "Let's go back to the office," she added, sliding her body back the way she'd come. Sark was actually surprised that she came the same way, but he knew he shouldn't be.

            Sark crawled after her, slowly so she didn't shoot him. As they came upon the vent to Wilshlegan's office, she suddenly reached forward and grabbed his arm. With that, she let gravity kick in and they both plopped down on top of the desk.

            Sark landed nearly on top of her, which would have been advantageous, but instead he fell on his back. Sydney was standing over him, gun aimed, before he could regroup.

            He winced obviously, and for a moment he saw a flicker of compassion. Sark tried to bite back a smirk at her humanity; he showed her what she wanted to see: a mixture of fear and pain.

            "Stand up," Sydney said. Her straight hair was slightly disheveled in its ponytail, but the rest of her appearance was stunning. A bit dusty though . . .

            Sark faked a sneeze. He ran his hand over his nose. 

            "The dust. Sorry," he added. She nearly blanched at the politeness. Sark laughed to himself while she regained her authority.

            "Come on. Out the window," she ordered, gun still aimed at him. Sark moved for the window, which had a freshly-cut hole in it. He noticed the ropes there too.

            "I've got Sark. Meet me at the extraction," Sydney said to whoever was listening on the other end of her comm.

            _No doubt her Agent Vaughn_. Sark started out the window, pausing before descending. Sydney gave him a nod to continue, and he quickly zipped down to the ground.

            He looked up as Sydney came after him, and before he could even contemplate running, he saw that she had her gun trained on him the whole descent. She caught her breath as she landed.

            "I take it you didn't climb up to his office in broad daylight," Sark said, analyzing the route they just took.

            Sydney shook her head as she used one hand to smooth out her hair.

            "The roof. It looks like you came in the front door," she commented, looking him over. Sark smirked at that.

            It was so obvious that she liked what she saw.

            "I think I would have gotten the job too," he added, flashing her a charming smile. That's when she picked up on it and got serious.

            She jabbed the nose of the gun in his side. 

            "Move."

            A van suddenly appeared, and Vaughn too as he slid open the door. 

            "Get in," he ordered.

            Sark bit back some sarcasm and complied. He held up his hands in mock surrender as Sydney and her backup watched him.

            "Did you get the vial?" Vaughn asked. Sydney nodded, but her eyes never left Sark.

            He liked to think that's because she found him so attractive.

            "What do we do with him?" Sydney asked with a nod toward Sark. 

            The way she asked . . . it was obvious the CIA wanted him, but her question betrayed her thoughts. She wanted to consider another alternative. _Maybe letting me go, or her running off with me._

            Sark let his eyes bore into her; he wasn't challenging her authority, given the situation, but he was playing to her sympathies. He gave her the softest, caged animal look he could muster, and he saw results immediately.

            Sydney started to lower her gun, but caught herself. It all took only seconds, but Sark knew he was making a dent in her protective shell.

            "CIA is expecting him. Weiss has a sedative standing by at the airfield," Vaughn said.

            _Well, that won't do. I can't seduce her when I'm unconscious._

            Sark cleared his throat, drawing both the agents' attention. 

            "I hate to interrupt, but have you put the vial in proper storage?" 

            "Of course." Sydney's 'duh'-look bordered on being insulted.

            Sark shrugged in apology. "I just want to make sure you know what that is," he said with a fake smile. "I never know how much you know about your missions."

            That got Sydney's attention.

            "What's that supposed to mean?" Her defiant tone challenged him, and Sark couldn't help but smile. He loved it when she got this way.

            "Miss Bristow, I never mean any offense," he said insincerely. "I've noticed you act on half-hearted intelligence without the full picture. That's why I've normally stayed ahead of you."

            "Until now," Vaughn said. Sark nodded.

            "True."

            The van was slowing down, and Sark knew his moment was coming. Vaughn jumped out first.

            "I'll watch him. You get the sedative," Sydney said. Vaughn left.

            _Perfect._

            She was nervous, more because of how she questioned herself about Sark than because of the danger he posed. 

            "While we have a moment, may I ask you a question?" he started. His calmness just put her on edge more, or maybe it was her feelings for him.

            "Fire away," she said with a wave of her gun. Sark smirked at that reminder. 

            "How can you hate me so much, Sydney? We're really not that different."

            He knew exactly what she was going to say next. He rattled it off in his head as she spoke.

            "We're nothing alike. I'm not a killer, Sark."

            Sark acted like that hit him. His pained look made her seem regretful of that line. _She is so easy to manipulate_. He took a slow, hurtful breath.

            "Irina told me you were trained, like me, to be a spy," he said quietly, almost whispering. "Project Christmas."

            It was sinking in, that maybe, just maybe they weren't that different. Of course, Sark was well aware he was lying to her. If she really knew he'd chosen this life and gave up his past, she'd probably shoot him in the knee.

            "I only bring up the similarity, because I was wondering if you'd consider working with me." He waited for the shock, which was almost instantaneous. 

            And at that moment, he pounced.

            Sark lunged forward and grabbed the gun and Sydney. He whirled her around in his arms and held the gun to her head.

            Just as Vaughn returned.

            To his credit, Vaughn didn't go for his gun. And, luckily, he didn't drop the syringe with the sedative.

            Sydney was tense against him. Sark could feel her lungs breathing erratically. 

            "Agent Vaughn." The agent clenched his fists, which made Sark's smirk grow. "You'll take that syringe and inject yourself with it."

            He saw the looks Sydney and Vaughn gave each other, and Sark knew they were plotting. He pressed the gun harder against her head.

            Vaughn sighed, and Sark almost laughed at the pathetic surrender in his tone. The man slowly took the syringe, and chucked the cap of it to the side. He pushed up a sleeve, glancing at Sydney and Sark as he did. After a moment of hesitancy, Vaughn slipped the needle under his skin and injected the sedative.

            He fell to the ground ten seconds later. The sound of him hitting the ground made Sydney jump.

            "Don't hate me, Sydney. You would have done the same thing to ensure your survival," Sark whispered in her ear. She shuddered; the revulsion in that made Sark pause.

            It did more than that. It angered him, and made him rethink this plan. He let himself go from the forced politeness.

            "I'll spare you having to witness me kill anyone today, Miss Bristow," he said between his teeth. Sark pulled a hand back, just out of her view. "Consider this a professional courtesy."

            She tensed right before the blow, but probably because she thought he may just kill her. That made Sark mad too, but he pushed that aside for now. Sark let Sydney's body fall to the van floor and then pushed her out by her precious handler. 

            The vial was in a cooler of sorts behind the driver seat. Sark started the van and quickly drove off before the rest of the CIA came after him.

             He won this round, which pleased him despite the surprise brush with the CIA. The only thing that dampened his satisfaction was Sydney.

            Sark shook his head clear of such thoughts. It didn't matter. He would win her eventually.

            Anything worth having took time.


	3. Part Three

Part Three

            Irina was immensely pleased when Sark returned to the lab facility. From the look in her eyes, she already knew he had been delayed, but she didn't ask why.

            That was Irina's version of compassion.

            "Start testing it immediately," she instructed, tucking her hair behind one ear. The movement made Sark cringe. It was just like Sydney.

            Sark nodded quickly. "I'll have a preliminary report for you tomorrow." She nodded.

            "I'm leaving in an hour for Hong Kong. I'll look for the report while I'm there." She gave him a firm, pointed look and then left. Sark smirked behind her back. Then he took the vial and went into the labs.

            He passed the vial to one of Irina's hired scientists.

            "Verify this is the right strain, and then start the animal tests," Sark ordered. "Call me with the results."

            Sark turned on a heel and left the lab. In one of the guest rooms at the facility he changed into more comfortable clothing. Dark jeans, black t-shirt, leather jacket . . . 

            He knew the lab would need at least six hours to have any results, so Sark descended to the garage where he kept a nice toy.

            The motorcycle was sporty, sleek and powerful. The body was silver and black, two colors he believed accentuated his image. Sark picked up the helmet and slipped it over his blond hair. He shut the shaded face guard, and hopped on the bike. 

            The engine kicked in, and Sark immediately pushed the fuel line. It wasn't the best motorcycle in the world. It wasn't the most luxurious, nor the best money could buy. But it had its share of power. That, when combined with Sark's driving, made these excursions . . . fun.

            Fun was a word he knew was rarely associated with him. Though it could detract from his stone-cold killer image, he was somewhat proud of it. That's why he was severely disappointed when his fun ended.

            The fun killer came in the form of Allison. She was one of Irina's recruits, and she waved that knowledge around to any underling she could, just to evoke fear. Sark realized his association with Irina helped his image as well, but he at least had the true iciness behind him to back up that image. Allison, on the other hand, was as scary as a cheerleader with a frying pan.

            Well, in his opinion, anyway.

            Sark spotted her through the limited vision of his helmet as he stopped at a fine wine store. But by then it was too late; she'd seen him.

            She waved him in, and Sark complied.

            _But only because I'm deathly low on Chateau Petreus_.

            To his annoyance, she had such a bottle in hand.

            "I thought we could share this over dinner," Allison said with such obvious desire that Sark almost vomited. She wore brown leather pants, and a low cream tank top that left nothing to the imagination. _Completely different from Sydney_.

            "I have dinner plans," Sark replied with no smile. Her own flirty grin froze, but then spread wider.

            "Maybe tomorrow then," Allison purred. She batted her eyes at him; they were brown with golden bits that reminded him of a tiger's coat. _She_ was like a tiger---stalking her prey.

            Him.

            Sark flashed her a charming but firm smirk. Without a word, he picked up three bottles of Petreus, and went to the cashier.

            As he did so, a man reading a newspaper outside quickly looked back to the newsprint. It instantly caught Sark's attention, but then Allison cut in.

            "Come on, Sark. We're both in town for awhile," she said. She was right; he planned to stay for three or four days as the tests were run, and Allison would contrive some reason to stay near the lab too. She tried to appear confident with her invitation, but behind those brown eyes was fear . . . of rejection.

            _Sydney__ would never be so unconfident._

            Sark hid a sigh. _I'm getting soft_.

            "Sure. Tomorrow," he said. He gave the cashier a few bills and went to his bike.

            "Can I get a ride?" he heard Allison call behind him. The thought 'hell no!' went through his mind.

            Sark looked around for the man with the newspaper, but he had disappeared. That started to make him wonder, but Allison again interrupted.

            "Sark?"

            "You'll freeze in that, with no jacket," he said. He purposely didn't offer his own, and she noticed, but quickly made up for it with her assumptions.

            "Oh you're too sweet. Making sure I don't get sick."

            _Hmmm.__ Maybe I should take her. Get her sick to death. _

            "Besides," Sark said with a growing smirk, "I don't want to risk dropping the wine. Take it back for me?" With that, he shoved the bag of wine toward Allison, slipped the helmet on and revved the engine to life. He flashed Allison an astoundingly fake smile and took off into traffic.

            Sark returned to the lab in somewhat of a bad mood, thanks to Allison. Lately, avoiding her was like trying to avoid a mugging in Rio de Janeiro. 

            "The vial?" Sark prompted, already impatient at the technician.

            "It's what we thought. I've already begun tests on the animals. Half are showing symptoms, and the others will follow." The man indicated some Plexiglas cages.

            Sark circled the clear cages, watching various rodents. Normally they scurried, but the technician was right; half were struggling for life, quite visibly. Their little chests heaved for air.

            The vial contained a neat little virus. It attacked the lungs. A few hours after exposure, the cells in the lungs died off. The lungs themselves started to overwork themselves. The diaphragm went into overdrive. And with each forced breath, the effort fueled the virus as the host's lungs disintegrated.

            The brilliant part was that the virus seemed like advanced pneumonia. While death was imminent within 36 hours, the host seemed victim only to bad luck.

            It wasn't contagious, which was partially why it was so brilliant and useful given The Man's purposes. Irina had several human candidates to test the efficacy of the virus. All of them would require Sark to go out and properly infect the candidates for assassination. That was fine with him, especially if it sent him to Los Angeles.

            He wouldn't mind taking a slight detour to see Sydney again.

            "Have a report ready after they're dead," Sark said finally.

            He sat in front of a fire place, nursing a glass of wine in one hand while staring at the flames. Sydney plagued his thoughts like the virus plagued the animals downstairs.

            She was vibrant in Prague. Her fierce determination to stay in control impressed him. Her obvious attraction made him hope.

            Well, there was that shudder which displayed some revulsion, but Sark was willing to overlook that on Sydney's behalf. She'd come around and realize how much she wanted him soon enough.

            His eyes started to itch, and Sark knew it was time to turn in. A glance at a mantel clock showed it just past 1 a.m. Sark sipped the rest of his wine, and set the glass down on an end table. 

            He had changed into some gray flannel pants, but now took off his shirt. Sark wanted to feel the chill of night right now.

            It didn't last long. Sark felt his body slowly relax against the starched sheets. Rest overtook him.

            And when he woke up, suddenly startled, it was Sydney who overtook him. Sark froze as Sydney smiled over the barrel of the gun aimed at him.

            "I bet you thought you won," she said, almost whispering. "One thing you should know about me, Sark: I don't give up easily."


	4. Part Four

A/N: Thanks to Sallene, who helps me catch errors and gigantic story holes! 

Part Four

            His grogginess left him instantly and adrenaline fueled him. But he stayed still, sitting up in the bed, alert.

            Sydney's eyes moved over his bare chest, and stopped at his waist where the sheet began.

            _She's wondering if I'm wearing anything at all. _Sark's lips spread into a grin.

            "I _do_ have something on, Miss Bristow," he said smoothly, gaining the upper hand momentarily. "Sorry to disappoint you."

            She glared at him, at which point he smirked openly.

            "Base Ops, I have Sark," she said as she touched her ear piece. Sark raised his chin as he listened. _She's not alone here_. "Copy, I'll wait for back up."

            Throughout the facility, he could hear the rest of her team moving about. Gunfire and shouts filled the halls and floors below.

            "So why are you up here, instead of retrieving the vial?" Sark started.

            Sydney saw where he was heading. "I'll let the tech team move in for the life-threatening virus. Besides, you're a high priority."

            "To you or the CIA?" he quickly asked, teasing. "Either way, I'm flattered."

            Her glare, which he realized he saw more than any other expression, was actually quite enticing. Sark flashed his charming smile in return.

            "What are you smiling about, Sark? You're in my custody," she said with a trace of victory.

            "There's no place I'd rather be."

            She grunted in disgust, and rolled her eyes. Sark chuckled.

            The laugh caught her attention. In fact, it looked like she froze.

            "I've never heard you laugh before," she said quietly. The shock on her face . . . it wasn't just surprise. To him, it was fascination.

            _I can do a lot with fascination_.

            "There's a lot you've never heard or seen me do before." 

            Sydney narrowed her eyes. "Is that a come-on, Sark?"

            He laughed again, more for playing on her fascination than because of humor. "I'm just saying there's a lot you don't know about me."

            She didn't say anything, but just studied him. It was pensive, until her eyes focused on his chest again. Sark smiled and stared back at her, until she realized what she was doing.

            "Do, uh," she paused to clear her throat, "do you want to put your shirt on?" Her timidity and nervousness made his ego swell.

            _She wants me._ Now it was time to make her heart favor him.

            "Sydney." He called her softly and leaned forward slowly, but she still jumped. "Ever since I first saw you, I've been---"

            Abruptly, someone came crashing through the bedroom door, killing his line. The intruder dove at Sydney.

            It was Allison. Sark almost groaned, but a gun went off, with the bullet hitting above him. Sark dropped flat on his stomach on the bed.

            The two women struggled for control. Allison trapped the gun between two hands as Sydney held firm. Suddenly Allison kneed Sydney in the side. Sydney's grip faltered, and Allison had control. Without any hesitation and before Sark could protest, Allison slammed the gun down on Sydney's head.

            She was out cold before she hit the ground.

            Sark leapt off the bed and crouched down by Sydney. She was breathing, but she was definitely unconscious. 

            Allison erupted. "What are you doing! We have to---"

            Sark interrupted her with a snarl. He stood up, grabbing the nose of the gun with one hand. He swiveled on a heel and quickly disarmed Allison, pushing her back too. The gun, which he leveled at her head, shook slightly with the rage that ran through Sark. 

            "Don't ever touch her again." His threat was so clear that all Allison did was nod.

            Sark spun around and grabbed a shirt and his leather jacket.

            "Is the virus compromised?" he asked, back to business. Allison paused as she seemed to gather herself.

            "Yes. The CIA is headed up here. We don't have much time." There was some anger in her voice, but what showed through more was confusion and fear.

            Sark really didn't care how Allison felt. _She interrupted a perfect moment of seduction. He knew she probably saw it as rescuing him, but Sark never needed rescuing. _I make my own escapes_. Sark was a survivor._

            "Out the window, Allison. I'll be right behind you," Sark ordered, tossing her the gun he took from her. He pulled his shirt over his head and slipped the jacket on. Under his pillow was a 9mm, and Sark grabbed that and his cell phone on the nightstand.

            The gun was there the whole time, but Sark hadn't wanted to fight Sydney. _Not physically anyway_. No, their verbal sparring was much more effective. 

            He kneeled next to her again. Sydney's hair half-covered her face, and Sark brushed it back gingerly with his fingertips. 

            Peace settled over her features. If it weren't for the black tactical gear she wore, Sydney would almost appear asleep.

            The thought of taking her with him crossed his mind, but several pairs of footsteps were approaching. With only moments left, Sark kissed her forehead. He looked at her beauty, which haunted him daily, and quickly went out the window.

            Sark called Irina as soon as he and Allison stopped running. 

            "What happened?" Her question made Sark wonder if she just had some psychic link to all her operations.

            "Raid. It was CIA. The virus is gone."

            He heard Irina mumble something in Russian he didn't catch. 

            "How was the facility compromised?" she asked.

            Sark thought back to the wine store. _The man with the newspaper. _

            "I think I drew some attention earlier in the city," Sark said. He steadied his voice, making it almost robotic in his admission. 

            He knew Irina didn't do the blame game, but she normally would be angry. Sark appreciated her moving on.

            "Stay on the move," Irina said. "We don't know what else might be compromised. I'll be in touch." Sark looked at Allison, who stared at him with a trace of anxiety.

            "We need to keep moving," Sark said after hanging up. "I'll get us out of the country, but then we should split up." 

            Allison nodded, but the sadness in her eyes didn't go unnoticed. Sark rolled his eyes, but decided to offer some comfort if it'd help her focus.

            Sark put his hands on her shoulders.

            "Allison," he started, getting her attention, "We'll get out, and then you can make it on your own. Keep in touch with Irina and me." He paused, and then forced out the next words: "You're a talented agent. You'll survive."

            Her melancholy disposition evaporated like a tear in the desert. She grinned broadly, then cocked her head to the side flirtatiously.

            "Thanks, Sark."

            Sark nodded reluctantly, and quickly kept them moving for the train station.

            Allison was quiet for most of the train ride to Zurich, thankfully. Sark could tell she was stewing over something, but Sark just stared out the window, watching the moonlit scenery streak by. He was quite conscious of the hard, concentrated look he had on. It was purposeful, to keep Allison mute.

            But evidently, it wasn't completely effective.

            "Do you like Sydney Bristow?" Allison spat the question out like bad tofu. Sark's reproving glare was instantaneous.

            "I'm willing to overlook that outburst considering the night's events," came his controlled response. Allison rolled her eyes.

            "Get over yourself," she said. "You turned against me! You practically defended a CIA agent, and by doing that you betrayed Derevko."

            Sark just laughed. His smile was fake and so cold, that Allison shut her mouth. A spineless look surfaced in her eyes.

            "Planning on telling on me, Allison?" Sark's eyes were bright and his grin menacing. "I work for Derevko. And Sydney is her daughter." Allison knew this, but her eyes darted to the floor as she understood what he was getting at. "Next time you go up against Bristow, make sure you don't come close to hurting her."

            Any remotely intelligent person would have left it there, but to Sark's annoyance, Allison did not rank among those people.

            "Are you willing to sabotage our objectives just to satisfy your crush?"

            '_Our objectives?' Is she really stupid enough to believe she has any real part in Derevko's operations?_ _And a 'crush'?! _ Sark momentarily contemplated breaking the train window and tossing Allison through it.

            Sark decided to cut her off in the most clear and painful way possible--through her heart.

            "Allison," he began, calmly and quietly, "just because you are jealous of Sydney Bristow doesn't mean you should mistake your place in Derevko's operations or in my life."

            She opened her mouth, closed it, and tried again. The mouth clamped shut, and Sark thought he saw a shimmer in her eyes.

            _Who cares?_ Sark heard the train's brakes, and glanced out the window. They were in Zurich already. He moved out the cabin door as she stared after him. Sark called over his shoulder.

            "Call Derevko later today. She'll have orders for you."

            With that, Sark left Allison in the train car, and disappeared into a crowd of late travelers. As he did, he could almost still feel Allison's eyes on him.


	5. Part Five

Part Five

            It took two days of zigzag traveling, but Sark finally ended up in Kauai, one of the Hawaiian islands. He based his operations there, until things were cleared from the lab facility. 

            The island was pleasant; there were just enough tourists to blend in as a pasty-white mainlander, but not so many that he tripped over people. Sark spent most of his days in a bungalow he rented handsomely from a local. He was either on his phone or laptop most of the time, but got out every now and then to walk the beach.

            Of course, he only allowed himself that pleasure when the light was low---no sense risking exposure or recognition.

            His sources were reporting that despite the raid, CIA hadn't found much to cripple The Man's empire. They had the virus, but in the grand scope of things, that wasn't a terrible predicament. 

            But rumors were starting to fly about rival groups rearing their heads. All the usual suspects heard about the raid, and their confidence seemed to be overcoming their normal cowardice. 

            That concerned Sark.

            Some of his sources were from within those rival organizations, but that only allowed him so much info. His sources weren't always forthright or timely with their information.

            It made sense when Irina told him to find a source within the CIA.

            "Are you not concerned about being double crossed?" Sark asked her, playing the role of caution.

            Irina paused strategically. "I'm confident you'll be able to tell if there's cause for concern. The intel we get from the CIA could help us avoid such incidents as the one at the lab."

            Sark smirked into the phone at the jab. 

            "It can help us stay ahead of our enemies as well," Irina added. 

            "I'll get on it."

            "Allison," Irina began, "is in Jamaica right now."

            Sark hesitated at that. "What's in Jamaica?"

            "A menial research assignment. She seemed upset after the raid." Irina's tone probed him for answers. "Any idea why?"

            Sark smirked, narrowing his eyes as he pictured Allison in his mind. "Weakness." He could have sworn he heard Irina laugh. 

            "Get moving on a source at CIA." She hung up without saying another word.

            Sark started with the L.A. office, for obvious reasons. Actually, he never considered searching anywhere else for a turncoat. 

            The problem with CIA and its operatives is you can't be a hundred percent sure of their loyalties, especially when they claim to be your double agent. Sark, though he understood the necessity for having such a source, wasn't keen on the idea of recruiting someone.

            As he sat in a LA hotel suite and searched through dossiers, Sark smiled as ingenuity dawned on him. 

            _Brianne__ Wilcox. Her picture portrayed her as a reserved but bubbly sort of personality. She worked as a secretary at the Joint Task Force center. In reality, she was a step higher than a receptionist, but had access to just enough information to be useful._

            Sark estimated that she knew little, if anything, about the goings-on of the center. He severely doubted she knew anything about him or Irina Derevko. But just getting close to her would be enough to know when something big was in the works. Add in technology, and she could do a lot without knowing she was a leak.

            _Perfect._

            Sark observed the Joint Task Force from a rooftop across the street. Brianne was supposed to be an 8 to 5 type of employee, but today she left at 6:30pm. _Excellent. Any tardiness in leaving meant something important kept her at work. Sark smiled to himself._

            His binoculars followed her bouncing red hair as she walked to the subway. Sark smirked at that. _Can't even afford a car on CIA salary._ She disappeared down the subway entrance as Sark packed up.

            He was waiting outside her apartment before she arrived. The subway route took her 45 minutes, versus his twenty. He watched as she fiddled with her keys and slipped into her apartment without a care in the world. 

            Brianne was attractive, physically at least. But just from her dossier, Sark knew serious intelligence was lacking. She wasn't an agent, and she would never see the red flags. _Again, perfect. _

            In the morning, she left at 7 am, which meant she preferred being early versus rushing in the office at 7:59. She never resurfaced for a lunch break, which meant she either worked through it or ate inside.

            She was simple. Reasonable. Low maintenance and personable.

            Sark made contact that night, on the way home. He sipped at a bottle of water in a café until he saw her walk toward the subway. Without finishing, he chucked the bottle at a trash can and followed her. 

            She waited pleasantly at the platform, seemingly not in any hurry, despite the large crowd. Sark stood two people to her left in the herd. A train came, and people quickly filed on before she even tried to board. Brianne simply moved closer to the front edge of the platform. 

            He stood right next to her now.

            Sark sighed audibly, and checked his watch. "Too many people," he muttered in the best American accent he could muster. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her smile and look down at the ground.

            "In a hurry?" she asked. Sark glanced at her quickly, and then faked a double-take.

            He flashed his white teeth in a charming grin.

            "Probably like everyone else," he said. "I just have to get to my car."

            "Your car?" she asked, on cue. 

            Sark smiled again. "It's in the shop, which closes in half an hour."

            "So you're not used to subways, huh?" Her voice was nice, Sark admitted to himself. He half-expected a high pitched squeak.

            "Not at all."

            Another train was squealing in. Brianne inched forward, then turned to face him.

            "Come on. You can make this one." He nodded and followed her through the crowd.

            Subways, or rather, their stench, was one of the most alarming things he'd ever experienced. Sark tried to hide his disgust.

            "So where's this car shop?" Brianne asked. She tried to appear nonchalant, but Sark could read the excitement behind her eyes.

            "I'm not good with directions, but it's called Mack's, over on . . ." He made a show of trying to remember.

            "I know where that is. It's a couple of blocks from my apartment," Brianne said, smiling at the discovery. _She knows we'll be traveling most of the way together._

            "Really?!" 

            Their connection was set enough; Sark engaged her conversation the rest of the way. 

            She laughed quite a bit, which was somewhat annoying. It wasn't so much the frequency as the predictability of her laughter. _That's what you get for playing her. Sark mentally shrugged at himself. __Whatever it takes._

            They were rounding a corner on foot now, just a block from her apartment. The auto shop Sark named was another block in the opposite direction from where she lived.

            "Mack's is just down that way," Brianne pointed out. Sark could hear the hesitation in her voice. _She doesn't want this to end._

            Sark smiled at her. "Thanks for helping me find it." He paused, awkwardly. "Um, I'm Devin." He stretched out a hand, which she took.

            "Brianne." Her brown eyes were searching his for something, anything. Sark just smiled.

            "Um, I better go, before Mack's closes. It was good to meet you." Sark started to turn away, and could almost hear her disappointment. Sark quickly turned around. "Would you like a ride?" He pretended to blush at how foolish that sounded. "I mean, I'm assuming that since we were at the same subway, we work somewhat close to each other. I could swing by in the morning."

            He let the invitation hang in the air. 

            "Yeah! I mean, that'd be great," Brianne said, quickly recovering. "Um, I just live down this street, the third building."

            Sark nodded, giving her a long look. "I'll be outside at 7:30."

            _Well, that was hardly a challenge_. Sark poured himself a glass of wine and settled into the suite's sofa. He didn't bother congratulating himself; he knew Brianne Wilcox would be easy to win over. 

            Instead, he readied a bug of sorts to plant on her. The technology was remarkable, really. It was detectable only when on, and Sark knew to wait until she was settled at her desk until he activated it. Aside from listening in, he could also interfere with the network. Of course, that required some skills, but he wasn't worried. 

            His cell phone rang, interrupting his planning. 

            "Yes," he answered methodically. 

            "I thought I should give you a heads-up." The smoker's voice on the other end was a Russian freelancer. 

            "For what?" Sark asked. He got to his feet and started to pace the suite.

            "A new client is very interested in you. After the CIA raid, they think The Man is vulnerable. And they know you have a high place with The Man."

            Sark rolled his eyes. "They want me for information or leverage?" 

            "I'm not sure," the informant replied. "Both, probably."

            "Who are they?"

            "They call themselves the Hierarchy," the informant replied. Sark filed that in his brain.

            "I appreciate the call," Sark said, and hung up. 

            Leverage was ridiculous. Irina wouldn't sacrifice her operations to get him back, if he were ever taken. That alone was a big 'if,' enough that despite this report, he wasn't worried. That the Hierarchy wanted him for information didn't surprise him. Anyone with a brain knew Sark was a valuable commodity. 

            _Although, it seems someone is thinking about acting on that._

            Sark stood by the black Mercedes. He knew his black suit would woo her, which was a switch from the normal goal of fear. The light blue tie against his plain white shirt added to his role as an investment banker, his cover for this assignment.

            Brianne's jaw about dropped off when she came out. 

            "Good morning, Brianne," Sark said in the American accent. His voice sounded almost pubescent without his smooth British, but it was worth it. He didn't want such an obvious flag to tip her or anyone else off.

            The ride was quiet. It was like second-date syndrome—awkward enough to wonder why on earth either agreed to it, and with enough potential that no one wanted to speak and risk screwing it up. 

            "So where do you work?" Sark asked. 

            "The State Department. I'm a secretary there." Sark noticed that she didn't elaborate beyond that, but he didn't push her. "How about you?"

            "I'm an investment banker. I actually just transferred from my firm's New York office," Sark recited.

            That piqued her interest. "So you haven't been in town long?"

            Sark shook his head. "No. I've been in LA before, but never on a permanent basis. I'm still staying in a hotel until I find a decent apartment."

            And the silence settled back over them.

            Sark pulled out a business card with his alias on it, once they stopped outside the "State Department" building. She watched him as he hurriedly wrote down his cell phone number.

            "Um, here's my number. I leave work at odd times, but if you'd like a ride home, just call me."

            "Oh, I don't want to burden you," came her automatic reply. Sark's eyes almost smiled as he gave her a kind look.

            "You deserve better than the subway. It's no trouble." 

            She practically melted right there.

            Sark gave her the card and reached for her things in the back seat. As he handed them to her, he slipped the bug in a side pocket of her purse.

            "I'll see you later then."

            He was back at the hotel and listening by the time she settled at her desk with a cup of coffee. He heard her shuffle papers and talk shop with someone.

            So far, it was meaningless, but he didn't expect much at this point.

            Suddenly, he heard a familiar voice say 'good morning.'

_Brianne__: Hey __Sydney__!_

Sark nearly fell out of his chair.

_Sydney__: How are ya? _

_Brianne__: Good. _

Sark noticed her tone obviously played down her excitement. Sydney seemed to pick up on it too.

_Sydney__: Okay, give. _

_Brianne__: What?_

_Sydney__: You're glowing. Come on, spill it._

_Brianne__: (giggling) I met someone._

_Sydney__: Okay, you have to tell me! But later, 'cause I've got a briefing right now._

_            Briefing?_ Sark straightened in his chair. It could be nothing of importance to him, but he'd rather know than guess. Sark activated the bug's network capabilities, and started accessing what he could.

            He stumbled across a high-priority intelligence report about a group called the Puo-Tang. He'd never heard of them before, but based on the analysis, Irina had crossed them before.

            _Not surprising._ The Puo-Tang seemed motivated in much the same way as the Hierarchy. 

            They were after Sark.

            Sark put in a call to Irina, who merely assured him that the Puo-Tang was incompetent. 

            "But they're stupid enough to try something, so be careful," Irina warned. Sark rolled his eyes at the ceiling.

            "They aren't the first to have this idea."

            "What do you mean?" Irina asked. 

            "The Hierarchy," Sark started. "I received a call from one of my sources, telling me that they aim to capture me to get to you."

            "I've never heard of them."

            That almost frightened Sark. Irina usually knew everything, or had some connection to every organization in existence.

            "Well, in order for that to happen, you have to be caught," Irina pointed out.

            "Yes, I know," Sark replied, a touch frustrated at that obvious comment. "But it's a bit disconcerting that everyone is after me, while you remain anonymous."

            Irina laughed aloud, a rarity. "That's a consequence of being under my employ." Which was true; Sark chose to work for Irina, way back when. And now he was a target. It didn't bother him too much, but Sark preferred the anonymity that Irina enjoyed. Instead, he was on everyone's most wanted list.

            "I have an asset in place at CIA," Sark said, changing the subject.

            "Already? That was quick." Sark smiled. 

            "How do you think I knew about Puo-Tang?" he asked, teasing slightly. 

            "Let me know what else you find," she replied.

            Sydney's briefing was about the Puo-Tang, which also meant it was about Sark. He wondered what she thought about all this.

            His cell phone rang, and Sark was amused when the caller ID read 'US Government.' Sark cleared his throat before answering.

            "This is Devin," he answered. Brianne's sugar-and-honey voice responded.

            "Devin! Hi, this is Brianne."

            "Oh, hi!" His voice sounded pleased, though Sark looked as excited as a stone.

            "I'm sorry to bother you at work, but I just wanted to let you know that I won't need a ride tonight," she said.

            _Really?_

            "Oh okay," he said, adding a touch of disappointment to his voice.

            "I have errands to run," she explained. "But if it's not too much trouble . . ."

            "I'll pick you up in the morning," Sark filled in. 

            "Thanks! I'll see you tomorrow."

            The routine (that's what it was starting to become) picked up again with Brianne. Sark realized he needed to at least meet her expectations, to keep this "relationship" going and to produce the results he needed.

            So when he dropped her off, he asked her out.

            "If you're not busy tonight, I'd love to take you to dinner," Sark said. A grin spread on Brianne's face like wildfire. 

            "Thank you. I'd like that." Her response was low and slightly breathless.

            He flashed a smile. "Call me when you're ready."

            She called at 6 pm. When Sark pulled up to the Joint Task Force center, he was pleasantly surprised.

            Brianne had changed from a dull gray business suit to a bronze button-down. Her skirt was black, and the heels she wore did amazing things for her legs. Sark let his jaw drop.

            "Do you have a spare change of clothes you keep at work to dazzle unsuspecting men?" he asked. He almost felt underdressed in his tan suit and black button down. Almost. 

            "Let's just say my work keeps a nice wardrobe," she said with a wink. Sark caught on to what she meant. _She raided the clothes for special ops. _

_Sydney__ would have looked better._

            The restaurant of choice was meant to spoil her. Her eyes glowed at the dim lights and extravagant décor. They had a view of the ocean, and Brianne took a moment to appreciate it.

            "Anything to drink, sir?" a waiter prompted. Sark opened his mouth to say Chateau Petreuse, but thought better of it.

            "Anything you're craving?" Sark asked Brianne. She smiled like a kid at the candy store, but answered reservedly.

            "A white wine?" She looked to Sark for approval, who nodded at the waiter. 

            "So how was your day?" Sark asked, leaning his elbows on the table. She leaned toward him.

            "Good. Pretty normal, I think." The waiter returned and she sipped at the wine. "How 'bout you?"

            Sark just nodded.

            "So, investment banker." She paused, her eyes prompting answers. "You seem pretty well off for your stage in life, Devin."

            Sark chuckled. "Are you saying I seem too young for my career?"

            "And your lifestyle," she said with a smile. "Like your car?"

            "I impressed my superiors quickly at the New York office. And I've always liked expensive cars." He gave her a sheepish grin as he gulped down the wine.

            "There has to be more than that. Tell me about you," she said. The candlelight flickered in her eyes.

            Sark put his glass down. "Hmm. Like what?"

            "Where are you from, originally?"

            Sark licked his lips nonchalantly, but Brianne definitely noticed. He opened his mouth to answer, but his cell phone rang.

            "I'm sorry," he apologized, pulling out the phone. "Hello?" he answered. 

            "Puo-Tang knows you're in L.A.," Irina said immediately. "I just got word from a source." 

            Sark realized Brianne was watching him.

            "How?" Sark asked, trying to appear completely neutral.

            "I don't know. But my source said they're planning to capture you tonight."


	6. Part 6

Part Six

            Sark didn't say a word for several moments. His eyes started to sweep the room. He suddenly felt paranoid. 

            "Sark?"

            "Yes. Thank you for the call." Sark hung up, and then flashed Brianne a tight smile.

            "Everything okay?" she asked. He shook his head.

            "I'm afraid not. I have a sort of emergency at work." Sark paused, watching her. "I'm so sorry. I have to go." He flagged down a waiter while Brianne tried to object.

            "Yes sir?" the waiter said. Sark shoved a few bills in his hands.

            "This should cover whatever the lady wants, and a cab home." Sark stood up, surveying the room again. He came back to Brianne, who looked worried and somewhat flustered. "Brianne, I'm sorry. Let's try this again later." He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek.

            "Um, I hope everything's okay!" she called after him. He nodded back to her and left.

            He left his car where it was, and hurried down the street. Sark had no idea if the Puo-Tang was nearby, but he had to act somewhat erratically now to avoid any surprises.

            Being caught off guard wasn't something that happened often. Sark didn't much care for people hunting him down, but he wasn't afraid. He was annoyed.

            _Imbeciles trying to find out more about Irina_. 

            Sark heard the clacking of his shoes on the concrete; the noise peaked above the passing vehicles and other people around him. Sark kept his head down, but his gaze flickered everywhere.

            _How would they even find me?_ None of his actions were planned, or seemingly important to anyone in the intelligence world. _If they think they could just find me, then they would have to have significant man-power. _That thought almost concerned Sark.

            He shook it off, and kept walking. As he did, Sark caught his reflection in a store window.

            And someone else's. The man, about five people behind Sark, made eye contact with him in the reflection. His face was stern, and definitely Asian.

            Sark picked up his pace, and quickly turned down another street. 

            The footsteps behind him sped up. Sark glanced over his shoulder, and found not one, but two men following him.

            _Puo__-Tang._ Not so incompetent after all_. _

            The traffic was busy enough to discourage jaywalking, but Sark suddenly darted out into the traffic. He ran down the street, and cut down an alleyway as horns blared behind him. The flaps of his suit jacket fluttered behind him as he ran.

            Food—Sark smelled grease, and he knew a restaurant was nearby. He spotted a back entrance and cut through the restaurant.

            He ended up in front on another street. One of the Puo-Tang rounded the corner as he emerged. Sark kept running. His gun was stashed in his car, a fact over which he cursed himself. 

            Sark ducked into a bar and quickly went out the back. He ran further down the back alley, and then ducked behind a dumpster. 

            He removed a knife from a sheath in his boot. He admired the blade as he twisted it in the dim street light, watching the glints reflect off the metal. The blade was curved, the tip up. Intricate designs decorated the metal on either side of the blade. Sark had it since he was a teenager, when he faked his death.

            It was his father's—something bought from a tourist shop on one of the many summer vacations. Sark had always wanted it. He used to sneak into his father's office and swish is through the air. Right before he faked his death, Sark just took it.

            Now, he relied on it and his skills to get out of this.

            The follower approached. Sark counted off the steps, and suddenly met the man with his blade.

            The blade sank to the hilt. Sark quickly pulled it out and spun around. He swung his leg down on the man, and the body fell to the dirty ground. Sark wiped the blade on the man's shirt, then sheathed it back by his ankle.

            _There were two_. Sark froze, watching, listening. After a minute, he walked on.

            Sark reemerged on another street. The people going by were carefree, unaware of what danger walked by them.

            He was four blocks away from his hotel when a dark van suddenly screeched to a halt in front of him. Sark started to take off, but the side door slid open, and three men inside grabbed him.

            The captors pulled at him as he fought against their hold. They suddenly slammed his body down on the van floor. Sark grunted at the impact, but picked up his struggle.

            One of the men elbowed him in the stomach. Sark's body automatically crumpled. Before he could recover, he felt cold steel against his forehead.

            "If you want to live, don't move." 

            Sark complied. "What do you want?" he spat out. 

            "We'll have plenty of time to talk, later," one replied. Sark felt coarse rope being forced over his hands.

            Sark knew there was no way he was letting himself being captured here, like this. _Or at all._ He took a deep breath, and then struck.

            Sark snapped his head to the side, dodging the gun threat. With a quick swipe, Sark kicked over his head and nailed one of the men. He braced his body up with his bound hands, and kicked out at the other two men.

            The three were stunned, but not down. Sark lashed out another kick directly at one man's throat. The man's head snapped back and his hands rushed to his throat. His breath went out moments later.

            Another man dove for Sark as the van swerved in the road. Sark sat up and met the man's dive. He pulled his hands back and then hit the man in the chest, hard and direct.

            The third man scrambled for the gun, which was bouncing all over the van. Sark simply beat the man to it. With his hands bound, Sark didn't hesitate to pull the trigger. 

            The driver was worried now. Sark nearly put the gun through the driver's head.

            "Pull over, now," Sark ordered. His tone was deathly calm. The driver obeyed immediately.

            Sark freed his hands, then had the driver out on the ground.

            "I want you to tell me everything about the Puo-Tang," Sark said. The driver nodded nervously. "Good. Let's start with how you found me."

            "The Puo-Tang struck, but failed," Sark reported. He was surprised when he heard Irina sigh in relief.

            "What happened?"

            "I killed them. And I know where the rest are and who the order came from," he said. He was on the way into his hotel. At the front desk, he paused. "Check out for Devin Nichols." The concierge nodded, but not without a look at Sark's disheveled state.

            "Tell me, and I'll take care of it," Irina said. Sark smirked, which at the moment was a very content expression for him.

            Sark was safe in a new hotel, and eagerly hacking through the CIA's system. He had called Brianne to let her know he had to leave town for a brief trip. He didn't feel like pretending at the moment. That, and he still needed to get something to cover up a bruise.

            _There it is_. A new brief, marked urgent, detailed the demise of Puo-Tang. Irina _did_ take care of them. The whole group was eviscerated. 

            CIA's analysis was that other groups were rethinking going after Sark. They saw the Puo-Tang's demise as a warning to stay away from The Man and Sark.

            _Perfect_.

            There was no mention of the LA run-in, which relieved Sark. He didn't want to draw the CIA's attention to himself or his source.

            Which reminded him . . . he had to make amends with her.

            "Brianne." 

            "Devin! You're back?" she asked.

            "Yes. I'm really sorry about the other night," he said. "Can I make it up to you?"

            She practically giggled. "Yeah. Actually, there's this concert this weekend that I have tickets to. . ."

            "Let's go to that. When should I pick you up?"

            The next "date" was set for Friday. Sark continued to play chauffeur to Brianne, all the while listening in and searching for intel through the CIA.

            With the Puo-Tang gone, Sark turned his attention to the Hierarchy. The suspected leaders were from Tajikistan, Sweden, and Singapore. _Not your usual mix_, Sark noted.   
            Suspected locations of operation were Tunisia, Nicaragua, and Burma, of all places. _Not the normal hot spots for terrorism_. Sark stopped reading. _Why are they out in these relatively remote areas?_

            Sark rolled his eyes to himself. _That's the point_. _It keeps them hidden_. Even the locations were vague. _Countries, but no specific area or city_. Sark continued on. The CIA's intel was sparse about the group. It seemed to be growing quickly, but yet their presence seemed non-existent. So far, they hadn't killed or bombed anything. However, the Hierarchy was on several lists as suspects for robberies world-wide.

            _So what's their objective?_ Based on what they might have stolen, they were getting ready to launch themselves as a verifiable source to be reckoned with. Advanced weapons, next-gen technology, jewels and money . . . 

            As of yet, they had no purpose, but Sark suspected that would change. Their interest in him pointed to that. Sark suddenly felt a rush of ice run through his veins. His instincts screamed at him, and Sark knew.

            The Hierarchy was no Puo-Tang. 

            "I think they would be trickier to defeat if they came after us," Sark told Irina later. She absorbed the information with an 'hmmm.'

             "Anything else from your asset?" she asked. The way she annunciated 'asset' revealed her approval in his methods and genius for 'recruiting.' Sark smiled at that.

            "Nothing beyond what I've gotten from the CIA network," he said. 

            Irina didn't say anything for a moment, and Sark thought it was because of the lack of intel.

            "Allison asked about you," she said finally. Sark rolled his whole head around in annoyance.

            "Really?" he said flatly. Irina laughed.

            "I'll be in Russia for awhile. Call me when you have anything new."

            Sark nodded into the phone and hung up.

            The concert, he learned, was U2. That pleased him—fellow Irishmen, who could actually play decent music. Sark half-expected the concert Brianne chose to be Barry Manilow.

            Sark had to go out to find suitable attire for the evening. A nearby shop had a variety of jeans he never knew existed. _Not my usual shop. He normally spent his money at suit-only establishments._

            Boot-cut, painter, baggy, flare, relaxed . . . _Where's 'normal'? The shop's clerk must have noticed his perplexity, because she came up to him._

            "What are you looking for?" Her smile wasn't forced. _Another woman attracted to me, Sark thought with a tired sigh._

            "I'm not sure," Sark answered in his normal British accent. It was accompanied by the grin she wanted to see. "I had no idea jeans could be so complicated."

            "Well, how do you like your jeans to fit?" Her eyes batted at him non-stop.

            Evidently, the suit he wore didn't clue her in to his indifference. Sark took a deep breath. "Would you mind just picking out something you think would look suitable?"

            It took half an hour, but Sark finally left the shop with a pair of boot-cut, deep-denim-washed, worn-styled jeans. _Whatever the hell that means_. They were bluish and fit well.

            He had a black polo shirt in his hotel room, along with a black leather jacket. While part of him couldn't believe he was thinking so much about what to wear, he felt it was justified because he wanted to make sure he didn't stand out. _Especially not after the Puo-Tang found me.___

_            Who are you kidding? You're excited about wearing jeans._

            Sark ordered half of his brain to shut up.

            Brianne had said that dinner wasn't necessary since the concert started relatively early, and Sark was quite grateful he didn't have to sit through a five-course meal with a girl he could care less about.

            Sark was waiting outside her door at 7:30 that night. He rang the bell, and fiddled with his blonde hair as he waited. His hair was perfect; he had it trimmed a couple of weeks ago, and now it was past the fresh-haircut phase and into perfection.

            Not that it really mattered how his hair looked. _I could shave my head and women would still fall all over themselves._

            Brianne just about did. Her mouth opened in surprise as she took in his appearance.

            "Wow," she whispered. "I don't think I've ever seen you so . . ."

            "Informal?" Sark filled in, teasing her. She flashed him a look.

            "I was thinking of 'hot,' actually," she said. Sark laughed, and nodded to her wardrobe choice.

            "You look great," he said. His tone was soft, feigning sincerity over her form-fitting black pants, sage tank top, and beige suede jacket. _Not bad, but still not Sydney_.

            The concert was filling up fast, judging by the parking lot. From the outside, Sark could hear excited shouts and random guitar chords.

            Brianne grabbed Sark's hand and started to pull ahead. The touch startled him, but he followed her inside.

            It took ten minutes to find their seats, and when they got there, Brianne quickly went up to a flock of women in the area.

            "Hi!" she said. She turned back to Sark. "I hope you don't mind, but some of my friends had tickets too."

            Sark nodded with a smile. "No problem at all," he said, straining his American accent. _I hope __Sydney__ isn't here. A gun hadn't been shoved in his face yet, so he assumed he was safe, but he didn't breathe easily until Brianne introduced all her civilian friends._

            The concert hall darkened, and immediately the crowd went silent. A multitude of lights flashed next and a song began. 

            Sark watched in amazement as Brianne and her friends immediately started screaming. Instinctively he reached for where his gun normally was, until he realized he purposely left it in the car because of concert security. The crowd roared along with Bono, while Sark wondered if he'd ever heard the song before.

            As the song was coming to an end, a new figure joined the group. Brianne instantly went to the person, introducing her friends along the way. Sark ignored the newcomer for a moment as he watched Bono and the Irishmen.

            "And this is Devin," he heard Brianne say.

            Sark turned for his introduction, and froze.

            There in front of him, looking equally surprised and horrified, was Sydney Bristow.


	7. Part Seven

Many, many wonderful thanks to sallene! Just a brief warning, the next few chapters are a bit violent and angst-laden. But it's all leading somewhere. Enjoy!

Part Seven

            Sark and Sydney shared that horrified, deer-in-the-headlights look for what seemed like five minutes.

            "Devin, this is Sydney, a coworker . . ." Brianne trailed off. "What's wrong?"

            Sydney was trying to contain herself from lunging for Sark right then, or so it appeared. Her eyes darted around to the thousands of civilians around them, and Sark knew she would avoid a scene in the interest of protecting the masses.

            "Sydney and I have met," Sark said, giving Sydney a polite nod. Just then, U2 launched into another hit, and the lights grew bright around the stage. The sheer volume and bass rattled the concert hall. It distracted Sark.

            "So how do you know each other?" Brianne yelled above the music. Sydney just glared at Sark.

            "Shall we go outside and speak, Miss Bristow?" Sark suggested, dropping the American accent. Brianne noticed that immediately, and frantically looked to Sydney. Sydney was in the middle of giving him her iciest stare, and turned to whisper something in Brianne's ear. Brianne's eyes widened with fear, then hurt.

            Sark sighed, and then held an arm out to lead Sydney. She didn't take her eyes off him for a moment as they walked out of the concert. Amazingly, they even made it outside the building before Sydney exploded.

            "What are you doing here, you selfish, deceiving, cold-hearted—"

            "Are you done yet?" Sark interrupted. 

            Sydney suddenly swung a right hook at Sark and nailed him on the cheekbone. His hand flew up to the spot she hit, and he let himself stagger for a second.

            "Thank you. I needed that," Sark said with a smirk. "Now what? I'm assuming you told Brianne to call the CIA. Do you think I'm actually going to stick around for that?"

            Sydney brushed her hair off her face. "What makes you think I'm going to let you go?"

            Sark cocked his head to the side, surveying her with a challenging look. "You couldn't keep me here if you had twenty armed men to back you up." Sydney's lips instantly pursed together for her comeback.

            It never came. Suddenly Sark heard the clicks of four guns at his head.

            But the guns weren't just aimed at him. They were aimed at Sydney too. _Four men_. All dressed in black, with face masks. An old milk truck pulled up quickly, and suddenly the four men pushed Sark and Sydney, inside the truck.

            Sark had only one thought: _The Hierarchy._

            Voices. Blurred images. Loud noises. They all swirled together as Sark started to come to.

            It was cold. His body lay on something frigid and metallic. And it vibrated.

            His ears popped, and Sark realized the loud noise came from engines. _Plane_. He tried to move, to take in what he could, but a figure suddenly came up to him. Before Sark could say a word or object, the figure slammed something over his head.

            Waking up the second time was more painful. His head throbbed, and he felt something caked on it.

            _Blood_, he discovered. As he tried to touch it, he also discovered that his hands were chained together. He moved his feet, and heard rattling metal in response. The chain for his feet was secured in an orange-ish stone wall.

            _Great._

            "It's about time you woke up," came a cross voice. Sark moved his head and saw a very miffed Sydney. She was chained up on the opposite wall, and the first thing Sark thought was why the Hierarchy would take her.

            Sark suppressed a groan as he sat up. Light from a barred window, which was well out of his reach, made his head hurt.

            "Good morning to you too," he grumbled. Sark used his bound hands to rub his nose, and then noticed his feet were bare. They'd taken his knife too. His leather jacket was also gone, but the jeans and shirt were intact. "Any idea where we are?" he asked.

            Sydney just glared for a moment. 

            "How should I know? I've been unconscious for who knows how long," she spat out. "I doubt it's the Puo-Tang who brought us here, since you slaughtered them." 

            Sark rolled his eyes at her stupidity. _She's going to get us killed if she doesn't shut up._

            "I've been up for awhile Sark, and I haven't seen any surveillance. Chill out," she ordered him. "Sheesh, it's not like I don't know what I'm doing."

            Sark rolled his eyes again. _She thinks she understands. _

            "Are you saying the room isn't bugged?" Sark asked, forcing the politeness. She nodded. Sark knew she wasn't stupid, and that he underestimated her, but if she was wrong, it wasn't just his life at stake.

            "For the record, I only killed a few of the Puo-Tang. Three men and a driver, who came after me while I was in Los Angeles," Sark said.

            Sydney narrowed her eyes at him. "How long have you been in LA?"

            Sark just laughed. "I think it's ironic that two terrorist organizations have found me from their far-away bases, while the CIA didn't have a clue I was under their noses the whole time," Sark said. 

            "Two terrorist groups? Who has us now?" Sydney asked. Sark hesitated.

            "My guess would be the Hierarchy. They have the same objective as the Puo-Tang," he said. Sydney gave him a look to continue. "They want me so they can get to The Man."

            Confusion quickly came over Sydney's features. _She's wondering why I said The Man, instead of her mother_. He nodded ever so slightly, and suddenly it clicked in her mind. If they wanted Sark to get to her mom, they would want Sydney even more.

            "So they took me too?" she said softly. She didn't seem so confident about the bugs anymore, not when her neck was on the line too. Sark shook his head.

            "They probably took you because you were there. I think they'll find you aren't needed." He said it, but didn't believe it. _If they discover she's Irina's daughter, they will exploit __Sydney__. And if not, they'll use _Sydney___ against me._

            Neither appealed to him.

            "I'm assuming you were in LA to spy on the CIA," Sydney suddenly said. Sark smiled to himself. He knew where she was headed.

            "Yes."

            She pursed her lips together and the fire lit up in her eyes.

            "You were using Brianne, weren't you?"

            Sark didn't grace that realization with an answer.

            "You are such an unfeeling monster," she hissed at him. Sark just blinked. "Brianne was so excited about 'Devin.' And you were just using her."

            Sark sighed. "Sydney, you can't tell me that you've never misled the opposite sex to get whatever intel you needed."

            "Those that I've misled were horrible men who deserved it. Brianne is sweet and fun, and she shouldn't be treated like—"

            "I never mistreated her, Sydney. Except for my deception, I'm sure I treated her better than any of her past boyfriends," Sark said. He steeled his voice, trying to make no room for argument on Sydney's part. It didn't work.

            "Did you even see the look on her face? When I told her who you really were?" Sydney waited for an answer. 

            "She looked hurt," Sark said. "A little heartache is much better than what could have happened."

            Sydney appeared stunned at that. 

            "You were going to kill her, weren't you?" she said more to herself than to Sark. "You sick, conniving—"

            "I wasn't going to kill her," Sark interrupted, though he knew the thought had crossed his mind before. "She's a nice woman, beautiful even, and I used her for my purposes." He saw the horrified look on Sydney's face. "Intelligence, Sydney, not sex." He paused as he considered whether or not to say his next line. "Besides, how can I really care for Brianne when my heart prefers you?"

            The look on Sydney's face at that point was priceless. The sheer horror in it almost made Sark laugh, until he realized how much she hated him. And that thought jabbed at his heart.

            "You're insane if you think I would ever care about what you feel for me," she said. 

            Sark nodded, somewhat hurt but unwilling to show it, even if it made her feel bad. "Of course. You could never care for someone as unfeeling as me." The way he recited it caught her attention, but that didn't stop her.

            "That's right. Besides, there are about 2 billion other men I'd consider before you," she said, twisting the knife a little more.

            Sark feigned a smile, and decided to change the course of this discussion.

            "How are things with Agent Vaughn?"

            That got her attention. "What things?"

            "Ah, I see," was all Sark added. It fueled Sydney's reaction even more.

            "There's nothing between us, Sark," she said vehemently.

            "My condolences."

            Sydney shot him a go-shoot-yourself look. "He's not dead, Sark."

             "Sorry. Wishful thinking," Sark said with a smirk.

            Footsteps started to their cell, and suddenly the thick metal door opened. Two men came in and started toward Sark. One put a gun to Sark's head as the other unlocked Sark's feet.

            "Move," one of them said. Sark couldn't tell which one. They picked him up and half-dragged him along. He heard the metal door clang shut, leaving Sydney in the cell.

            Sark's senses started to scream for his attention. Before, he was too distracted with Sydney to analyze the situation, but he was making up for that now.

            He was escorted down a stone hallway. It was surprisingly light; the hallway was open to the outdoors, but on a second floor. Tall, grassy fields surrounded whatever building he was in. The air was thick and wet. Sark could hear birds chirping away in the distance.

            The stone floor beneath him was slightly chilly, even though the air was sufficiently warm. Sark thought back to the information he'd reviewed earlier.

            _Burma. That's where he had to be. The climate and surroundings didn't fit with Nicaragua or Tunisia. Sark felt some elation in that discovery, but it subsided quickly as his escorts led him into a dark, but open room. _

            The darkness stemmed from curtains covering every window. The footsteps of the two escorting guards echoed in the room. They stopped in the middle of it and forced Sark to his knees. His kneecaps banged against the hard floor, making Sark wince. The guards stepped away from Sark, but he knew there were at least two guns still on him.

            "Mr. Sark," came a male voice from one corner. The man came forward in the shadows. He was European, and he wore khakis and a white shirt. His hair was long and dark but his eyes bright green. He looked cold. Arctic. 

            "I have many questions for you, about you and your employer," the man said. His accent reminded Sark of Sweden. "In the interest of keeping your stay pleasant, you will answer these questions."

            "Who are you?" Sark asked. Because of the accent, he guessed this man was one of the three leaders of the Hierarchy.

            The man smiled, showing off crooked teeth. "Leave the questions to me." He made a slow round around Sark, inspecting him. "Who is The Man?"

            Sark held back a sigh. He had his own goals, and being held against his will wasn't on the list. He could turn on Irina, but he wouldn't. If he did, his career diminished with Irina's demise. He would be killed. And betrayal would just fuel Sydney's hatred for him.

            "You're an impressive agent, Mr. Sark. Studying you has been very interesting. I didn't think you cared about anyone. Since you've surfaced in our industry, you've only worked for one person: The Man. And I think you did that to help yourself."

            "Is there a point you're getting at?" Sark asked. The leader stopped in front of Sark.

            "You seem to have changed. The woman with you—who is she?"

            Sark clamped down on his tongue, thinking through an answer.

            "A thorn in my side. Does it matter who she is?" Sark answered with feigned indifference.

            "I think you are attached to this woman," the man said.

            "Actually, we were just about to kill each other at the concert when your men interrupted," Sark clarified with some levity.

            The man laughed at that. "You're trying to convince me she's worthless to you, but I think she's really the opposite. It doesn't matter. I'll know soon enough. But I'll give you a choice. I'm going to interrogate one of you for answers. It can either be you or her. You choose."

            _Choices, choices_, Sark thought. There were catches to both options, obviously. What the man before him wanted was proof that Sark cared for Sydney. If he opted for himself to be interrogated, that was proof, and then Sydney was considered to be more leverage. If he let Sydney be interrogated, well, that just wasn't an option. 

            "I choose myself." Half of Sark's mind screamed at him for being so altruistic. The leader laughed.

            "How noble."

            "Not really," Sark replied quickly. "You want answers that only I have. You'll interrogate me no matter what I choose."

            The leader eyed Sark, his green eyes gleaming at the challenge before him. Then, with a snap of his fingers, the two guards returned and picked up Sark. They connected his shackled hands to a chain that hung above his head.

            "You're right," the leader said. "I know a physical beating won't compel you to talk, but let's do it anyway. It'll loosen you up for later techniques."

            The first hit made his head snap back. The second depleted his lung capacity. At the third blow, Sark tried to disassociate his mind from the pain. He made himself pass out by hit #14.

            "Sark."

            He stirred, his consciousness moving toward the voice.

            "Sark."

            He tried to open his eyes, but one was swollen. Out of one eye he saw Sydney, leaning over him and looking concerned.

            Sark lay on his side on Sydney's end of the cell. He moved his hands to brace himself against the floor. As he tried to push himself up, pain shot through his stomach and chest.  He collapsed back against the stone with a grunt.

            And realized too late that Sydney saw that.        

            "They came in, while you were unconscious. They asked me who I am," she said. "And they told me what you did."

            Sark would have rolled his eyes if they didn't hurt so much. "What terrible thing have I done now?"

            "You let them beat you in my place." 

            That surprised him; Sark assumed she was about to accuse him of something. Instead, her candor disturbed him. He had always wanted Sydney to see him as a man, not a monster, but under his terms.

            He didn't like this lack of control. _That's what you get for getting captured in the first place—and with __Sydney__ as your cellmate. _

            Sark didn't say anything, but tried to get up again. Sydney placed a hand on his shoulder, pushing down on him gently.

            "Don't," she said. "Just rest." Sark wanted to protest, to say he didn't need to rest, but he couldn't argue with her now. Sark rolled on his back, and took a deep breath. It came back up as a hard cough.

            He felt Sydney lay a hand on his chest, quieting him down. He almost stopped breathing for a moment, even longer when Sydney scooted to him and lifted his head to rest on her lap.

            Through his blurry and swollen vision, he peered up at her. Sydney tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and looked around the cell, avoiding his eyes. Sark smiled at that.

            He wanted to stay awake, to talk with Sydney, to figure out whatever he could about their situation—but his body overrode his decision. Sark slept.

            And awoke to a guard delivering some version of food. Sydney reached for a bowl, but was held back by the chains. Sark's feet were chained together, but not to the wall. _They probably didn't bother, since I can hardly move._

            "I'll get it, Sydney," he said. She started to protest, but Sark already pushed himself up to his knees. With his bound hands and despite the pain, he slowly crawled to the food. It was some sort of soupy concoction, but Sark didn't feel terribly picky. He pushed the bowl in front of him, closer so Sydney could reach.

            "Do you think it's . . . safe?" Sydney asked. Sark lay down on his side, exhausted by his movement.

            "Safe as in sanitary—doubtful. Drugged, probably not," Sark mumbled. "Here, let me try it." He started to get up again, but Sydney passed him the bowl. Sark sipped the soup, and instantly struggled to get it down.      

            "Are you okay?" he heard Sydney ask. Sark nodded, and forced himself to swallow.

            "It'll keep us alive," he said. _But just barely. It tasted vile enough to make him forget his aching and empty stomach, and consider not eating at all. He pushed the bowl back to Sydney, who sipped at it with no comment._

            Sark started to check his injuries. His fingers gently probed his face. He discovered a deep cut on his cheekbone, and plenty of sore spots. His chest looked as bad as it felt. Sark pulled up his shirt to inspect the damage.

            The right side of his rib cage sported a large bruise. Various smaller purple bruises spotted his skin.

            Sark pushed his shirt back down and looked up right at Sydney. She snapped her gaze to his face, though she had been staring at his chest.

            "It looks worse than it is," he lied modestly. 

            "I haven't thanked you," Sydney said. "You were protecting me. You could have chosen not to."

            Sark shifted uncomfortably. He stayed silent for awhile, unsure of what to say. He settled on: "We're not out of this yet, Sydney."

            The metal door opened suddenly, and in walked the arctic leader of the Hierarchy. Sark glowered at him.

            "I'm glad to see you are doing better, Mr. Sark," he said. Sydney tensed, and Sark could see her balled fists. 

            The leader continued.

            "I wanted to share some news I've just heard. While I knew and planned on kidnapping Mr. Sark, by a stroke of luck I've also captured The Man's daughter."

            Sydney's eyes darted to Sark.

            "Not only that, but The Man is really a former KGB spy. A woman," the leader said, "named Irina Derevko."

            Sydney's eyes shot accusations at Sark.

            "This will make things very interesting," the man said. "I'll see you two in a little while."

            Sark didn't care for whatever 'a little while' would bring, especially now that the cat was out of the bag. As soon as the leader left, Sydney flipped the bowl up and at Sark.

            "You lied!" she hissed at him. Sark raised his hands to fend off the bowl. "You told him about my mother!"

            Drops of the soup littered his arms and clothes. Sark sighed.

            "Sydney, I assure you I did nothing of the sort. Giving you up would only devalue me as a commodity to the Hierarchy."

            He instantly regretted those words, knowing she would take them offensively.

            "Always thinking of yourself, huh, Sark?" Sydney reached for the fallen bowl and chucked it at him again.

            Sark ducked, missing the hit just in time. "Sydney, it wasn't me, all right? They must have found out some other way."

            She turned away from him and just sat, facing the barred window above them. Sark sighed again, but started thinking.

            _How did they find out?_

            The guards returned after an hour or so, and this time took Sark and Sydney down the long hallway.

            Sark steeled himself for another beating as the guards strung him up on the chain in the middle of the room. Sydney was to his left, on her knees with two guards on either side.

            "Since we all know who you are, allow me to introduce myself," came the leader's voice from the shadows. "I'm Mr. Halzden. I imagine you at least know something about my organization, the Hierarchy."

            Sark didn't answer. 

            "For some time, we've studied what we could about The Man and his—I mean, her—organization. Few have seen The Man or knew her location. But we knew you, Mr. Sark, were her close employee. You seem to know everything about her organization, and play an integral part in it," Halzden said.

            Sark just stared at the man.

            "There's only so much room in this business. And we've noticed that Irina Derevko tends to get rid of competition. So rather than be eliminated by her, we're determined to take over her empire."

            Sark laughed, drawing a bewildered look from Sydney.

            "Do you think my information alone can help you? Irina Derevko is hardly trusting, even of me," Sark said. Halzden smiled.

            "We realized your information would only get us so far. We thought you could be used as leverage with Derevko. But she's too smart to get attached to an employee." Halzden's eyes scanned over to Sydney. "But a blood relation, an only child . . . Derevko will cooperate."

            Halzden nodded at one of the guards, who pulled out a knife and started for Sydney.  Her eyes darted to Sark, and they were full of both worry and defiance.

            Sark immediately objected.

            "You're brainless if you think harming Derevko's daughter will buy you anything," Sark spat out loudly. The guard hesitated, and Sark noticed the knife. It was his, the one his father had. Sark made a mental note to kill that guard later, and get his knife back.

            "Why's that?" Halzden asked, challenging Sark.

            "If there's one thing I've learned under Derevko, it's that making her angry will only kill you in the end," Sark said. "Harming Sydney will guarantee you a sudden funeral."

            Halzden just smiled, and Sark almost groaned as he realized Halzden planned.

            "Mr. Sark has intervened again on your behalf, Miss Bristow," Halzden said with a grin. "Get the video camera!" he ordered.

            A guard scurried back and forth, and soon a camera was aimed at Sark and Sydney.

            "Perhaps the best solution is to show what will happen to Sydney if Derevko doesn't cooperate with us," Halzden said. He nodded to the guard with the knife, who advanced toward Sark.

            Sark took a deep breath as the blade took its first bite into his skin.


	8. Part Eight

Part Eight

            The guard cut off Sark's shirt, showing Sydney and the camera the blood that started to run. The cuts were shallow, but Sark knew they would only get worse.

            Sark bit his tongue as the knife traced a red line across his stomach. His breathing became ragged, and Sark fought himself to gain control over what he felt. 

            "Make him scream," he heard Halzden say. The guard brought an electric cattle prod to Sark's face, showing him what was next. Then he rammed the prod into his chest.

            Electricity shocked through Sark's body. A groan escaped his throat, and his chest twisted away from the prod.

            The guard zapped Sark again. 

            The yelp that escaped Sark's mouth made Halzden smile.

            "Hit him!" The guard lowered the prod and swung a right hook at Sark's face. Lightning flashed in his eyes as his head snapped to the side. A mixture of blood and saliva flew from his mouth.

            The guard returned to the cattle prod. Sark steeled himself for another jolt.

            "Stop it!"

            That was Sydney's voice, but it wouldn't do any good. The jolt made Sark yell again. His lungs heaved for air and relief. He felt his lungs expand and contract rapidly, almost matching the pace of his heart. He tried to stay standing, but the pain made his legs unable to support him. His body simply hung from the chains.

            The cattle prod cackled in front of him; the guard teased Sark with it. Sark saw the man's eyes lower to the rivulet of blood, and Sark knew what he planned.

            The electricity connected with his liquid blood, and Sark felt a searing heat flash through his veins. He heard Sydney shout out in protest, but to him, her voice faded to the background as his screams rang through the muggy air.

            _He quietly padded down to his father's office. It was __midnight__ at least, and his parents and siblings were asleep. His father's desk was huge, a solid mahogany. The teenager knelt by one of the pull-out drawers._

_            It was full of file folders, but he knew it was in here somewhere. He pulled the files forward, and saw a long rectangular box at the back of the drawer. A smile grew on his face, and he opened the box._

_            The blade of the knife sparkled at him. The curvature of the metal always amazed him. He removed the knife's sheath from its separate spot in the box. The sheath had intricate designs on it that matched the blade._

_            He smiled, proud and victorious. Then he returned to his room, to continue his plans._

_            At __one a.m.__, he snuck out of the two-story home. He rode on a bike to make sure he was quiet enough. Five miles later, he was inside a dirty and abandoned warehouse._

_            The make-shift surgeon motioned him to the chair, and he followed. An hour later, all four of his wisdom teeth and one back molar were removed. _

_            He felt woozy, but he made it back home. He changed the gauze in his mouth. The teeth were safely in a vial of water. _

_            He took a car in the morning, driving out to the woods. Only sixteen years old, and he knew he could pull off this plan. He stopped the car in front of several trees, then rigged a branch against the gas pedal. He dumped the teeth onto the driver's seat, and shifted the car into drive. _

_            The sound of the crunching metal was louder than he expected. The car started to smoke, and with the toss of a lighter, a fire raged over the car. The teenaged boy watched it burn._

_            He smiled, and __Sark__ was born._

_Sark__ dyed his hair, and got ready to blend in with the mourners. He stood across the cemetery, pretending to visit another grave as the procession came through._

_            He thought it was funny that his parents actually got a coffin. There was nothing in it, unless they put his teeth in. The coffin was lowered into the ground, and __Sark__ watched as his parents, brother and sister stood by the hole in the ground. They cried, and dropped in flowers. He could hear their weeping from where he stood._

            Sark's body shook awake. He struggled to catch his breath after the memory. _That was eight years ago. He shook off that thought and looked at his surroundings._

            The guards hadn't bothered with chaining his feet at all this time. Only his hands were bound. As he tried to move, he realized why.

            He gasped as pain flooded his limbs. He didn't remember passing out, but he did remember the horrific volts of electricity surging through him. 

            Sark stayed on the floor, not even wanting to move. His bare chest was cold against the stone. "Sydney?" he called out. It came out as a whisper, but he heard her stir.

            "Mhhmmm," she responded. Sark turned his head to face her. She was lying on the floor, her hair covering her face.

            "Are you all right?" he asked. He saw her nod her head, then brush her hair back. A gray and purple bruise sat above her eye. Alarm passed over Sark's face. "Did they hurt you?"

            "Just a punch, for the camera," she mumbled. "They sent the tape to my mom."

            Sark tried to sit up again, succeeding this time. "What else did I miss?" Sydney sat up too. She rubbed her eye gently.

            "They said something about you. That you should never have 'scorned the woman,'" Sydney said. Alarms sounded in Sark's mind. "They said something about Nicaragua, but I don't think that's where we are."

            "We're in Burma," Sark replied automatically. _Nicaragua__. That's not far from Jamaica. He closed his eyes and sighed to himself._

            "What?" Sydney asked.

            Sark reopened his eyes. "I think I know how they knew about you. And how they found me."

            "How?"

            "Allison Doren. You fought her at the lab, remember?" He paused, thinking through what must have happened. "I think she turned on me, and Derevko. She was in Jamaica for some assignment. She must have found the Hierarchy."

            "If she's part of your organization, why didn't she just give them what they wanted on my mom?" 

            Sydney had a point. Sark thought it through.

            "There's some emotion to it for her. By telling the Hierarchy about me, or where I was, she hurt me. But by having you . . . that was icing on the cake for her." Sark paused. "She only knows so much. And Allison is smart enough to know that Irina would smell a trap if Allison tried to find out more for the Hierarchy. She knows who you are to Irina, and knew that may be enough for the Hierarchy to use."

            "You think she betrayed you then? What if they interrogated her?" Sydney brought up.

            Sark shook his head, which he instantly regretted as it throbbed. "She probably has a deal with them. They wouldn't have said I 'scorned' her otherwise."

            The two were quiet for a moment. Sark's mind was alert, fueled by this new piece of the puzzle. His body, though, remained fragile.

            "Scorned?" Sydney suddenly said. Sark sighed.

            "She had a thing for me."

            Sydney chuckled at that, drawing a sharp look from Sark. 

            "That's what you get for playing with women's emotions," Sydney said. Sark rolled his eyes.

            "Spare me the lecture, Sydney." She just laughed more at that, but soon settled down.

            "Do you think my mom will come after us?" she asked. She looked straight at him, waiting for an answer. Sark avoided her eyes and stared at the floor.

            "The tape will have some effect on Irina. But she won't risk herself for us."

            That must have hurt Sydney some. She settled into a long silence.

            Which allowed Sark time to strategize.

            Sark lay back down. His body was incredibly sore, but he only had so much time to rest. He laid still and listened to an approaching storm.

            The guard came a few hours later with the soupy meal. Rain fell steadily outside. The guard glanced at Sark, who stayed still. The guard laid the bowl down, and that's when Sark struck.

            Though it hurt him beyond words, Sark twisted his body around so his leg hit the guard's feet. The guard fell on his back. Sark rolled toward the guard, and elbowed the man in the face. 

            The guard cried out, but Sark kept going. He raised his elbow again and slammed it on the man's windpipe. The guard didn't move again.

            Sark got to his knees, searching clumsily with his bound hands for the keys to the chains. _There!_

            He crawled over to Sydney.

            "Are you crazy?!" she hissed. "You can hardly walk, much less escape!" Sark shot her a look.

            "Shut up and give me your hands."

            They freed each other. Sark grabbed Sydney's hand and headed for the hallway. They ran right into a guard.

            The man was out of breath, no doubt from hurrying to the cell after hearing his comrade's shout. Sydney took immediate action. Sark leaned against the wall as she fended off a punch and landed one of her own to the man's gut. She followed with a kick to the chest that launched the man against the wall. Sydney kicked him again, and the man was out cold.

            "Let's go," Sark said, stumbling down the hall. He glanced over the side of the hallway, down at the fields. "We'll have to climb down."

            Sydney gave him an are-you-nuts look, but quickly scrambled over the ledge when more shouts echoed throughout the building. Sark followed her, wincing the whole time and biting his tongue to hold back any verbalizations of his pain.

            He half-fell to the ground. Sydney was already on her feet, and pulled him up. "Where do we go?" she asked quickly. Sark was breathing heavily, and only shrugged.

            "That way looks good," he said with a nod. Sydney shot him another look, but started running.

            The adrenaline did wonders for his body, but Sark still lagged behind Sydney. He saw her glance over her shoulder a few times.

            "Come on," he heard her say. Sark's legs felt like lead, and he clutched his chest as he ran. 

            "Keep going," he muttered. 

            Both of them looked back at the building when they heard gunfire. Sark swore under his breath; a swarm of guards was dispersing in the fields.

            Dusk was coming, and the rain only made it darker. Sark noted how wet the ground was. His bare feet were covered in water as he ran.

            Sydney stopped in the middle of a rice field, crouching to the ground as she waited for Sark to catch up. 

            "Get down!" she hissed at him. Sark stumbled toward her, and landed on his back in the watery soil.

            His chest heaved up and down, but Sydney clamped a hand over his mouth.

            "Quiet," she whispered. He could hear the guards in the field, fanning out and searching for them.

            Sark glanced at the water. The rain hadn't let up at all; in fact, it seemed to be pouring even harder.

            _Burma__. _

_            Monsoons._

            _Crap_. The water was at least four inches deep already.

            "Is there a plan here, Sark?" Sydney whispered. Sark shook his head. She rolled her eyes.

            "At least I got us free," he muttered. He raised his head to see where the guards were. "Where are they?"

            "I think they've passed us," Sydney said. She paused, looking around. "I don't think I've actually ever been here before."

            Sark nodded. "Me neither."

            "Well, it's so out of the way."

            "Exactly."

            They were quiet again, waiting, watching.

            "I say we head for higher ground," Sark said. "The water is only going rise, and it'll be harder to run down here."

            Sydney looked around again. "There's a hill over there. Stay low, and we can make it."

            She started off before Sark could get to his feet.

            "Sydney," he whispered loudly after her. Sark got to his knees and was just getting to his feet when Sydney came back. 

            "Sark, can you make it?" she asked. Sark clutched his chest.

            "Yeah," he said, gasping at a shot of pain. "Just go easy on me." Sydney smiled at that, and grabbed his hand.

            He stared down at the contact for a moment as they started to run.

            The rain washed away the blood on his chest and face. It also made his jeans less than comfortable to run in, but Sydney didn't seem to have any trouble in hers. Sark noticed, with appreciation, that her shirt clung to every curve of her body. He smiled at that, forgetting about the pain for a moment.

            The bright green of the trees and fields was diminishing. Sark looked up at the cloudy sky. It was getting darker, and fast. Night was coming closer and closer.

            Sydney charged ahead, pulling Sark behind her. They trudged up a slight hill. Sark's feet sunk in the ground, hindering his speed. Suddenly his foot caught on a tree root, and he fell.

            Sydney went down on a knee with him.

            "Sark!" 

            He tried to get back up, but the mud started to slide down the hill, taking away any traction he had. The sound of the rain grew louder, until he realized it wasn't just rain falling. The ground around them seemed to move, sliding down to the fields below.

            "Mudslide!" he yelled to Sydney. The soil above them came down, almost sweeping over them.

            Sark felt the mud and water push him to the ground, and soon he was one with the earth as it slid down.

            He grunted when his body hit something on the way down. It felt rough and pointy, like branches. As the mudslide continued, it rolled the branches and Sark over and over in the mud, down toward the fields.


	9. Part Nine

Part Nine

            The air left his lungs when he hit solid ground again. Before he could get up, the mud and natural debris from the hill covered him. It pelted him non-stop. Sark fought to break out.

            The mud suspended his movement. It was like glue. His aching body dug for an out.

            He felt rain on his hands. _I'm close. He pushed himself up, and broke out of the mud._

            His lungs expanded instantly, drinking in air, mud, and water. He coughed.

            _Sydney__! He looked around frantically. The worst of the mudslide seemed to be over. He looked everywhere. It was so dark, not just because of night, but because the mud covered everything._

            "Sydney!" he called out loudly. He knew the guards were still out there, somewhere. _But I can't lose her_. Sark started to dig in the mud, plunging his arms in beyond his elbows. He moved from spot to spot, trying to find her. 

            He yelled out in frustration, and dove for another spot.

            _Nothing._

            Sark stopped and surveyed the mud around him. He felt the back of his neck tingle and he turned to another spot, by a tree. He dug frantically, removing globs of mud at a time. Then he felt something other than cold mud.

            He grabbed her arm and started to pull Sydney up. Her body was limp, and Sark struggled to free her in his state. With all the strength in him, Sark pulled her out and laid her on top of the mud. 

            She wasn't breathing.

            The rain poured down on them both. Sark tilted her chin up. He parted her lips and breathed into her lungs. The mud got in his mouth, but he didn't care. _Breathe!_

            He tried again, a full, deep breath, and then started compressions. He breathed into her lungs again.

            Suddenly Sydney gagged. She coughed violently, releasing water and mud from her lungs. 

            Sark turned her over on her side, patting her back. He let himself relax, and realized how tense he had been.

            "It's okay," he heard himself say. "Just breathe, Sydney."

            Sark leaned back, staring at the night sky and at the rain that fell down on him. He welcomed the water now, rubbing away the mud on his face. 

            "Thank you." It was soft and quiet, but she'd said it. Sark looked at her, and smiled. She was covered in mud. Her eyes shone out like stars against the contrasting mud. Sark leaned over her and started to wipe away the mud on her face.

            The air was thick, but not just because of the humidity. She stared back at him, and Sark could have sworn he saw something there.

            His eyes were bright, filled with desire. Not lust, but something he hadn't felt for years, maybe never at all. He leaned in, closer to her. Sydney raised her head to meet him halfway.

            As their lips met, shouts echoed toward them.

            Sark whipped his head around. Six guards were stumbling toward them in the water and mud.

            "Come on!" He grabbed her hand and pulled her up. Adrenaline fueled him, and he took the lead. They stumbled out of the mud, and started running again.

            Lightning flashed, lighting the way momentarily. Sark heard gunfire behind them. _Never look back._

            He tightened his grip on Sydney. They ran, together, hard and fast. Their feet splashed in the rising water.

            "Sark," he heard her call after fifteen minutes.

            He slowed down, and looked back at her. The mud was mostly washed off, and her hair stuck to the sides of her face.

            "What?"

            She smiled briefly, but her chest heaved with exertion.

            "I'm," she paused, still catching her breath, "I could use a break." Sark smiled, and nodded. He released her hand.

            Sark leaned forward, bracing his hands against his knees. The water in the grass looked tempting.

            _Why not?_ He cupped his hands together and drank the rainwater. It was cool, and soothed his chest and throat. Sydney followed his lead, and started drinking.

            "Where do you think they are?" Sark asked, referring to the guards. Sydney shrugged.

            "Hopefully, they've turned back," she said.

            _Don't count on it_. Rice fields surrounded them again. Sark noticed a group of trees.

            "Let's hide in those trees for the night. We'll start for civilization when we can see better," Sark said. Sydney nodded, and they walked toward the trees.

            As they entered the batch of trees, Sark heard something rustle.

            "Don't move!" a heavily accented voice shouted. Sark practically jumped, but managed to charge at the source. He heard more rustling, and suddenly they were surrounded by guards. Sydney struggled hard, but the guards outnumbered her and put her to the ground. Sark dove at them, trying a last desperate attempt to stay free.

            His chest was met with the butt of a rifle. Sark fell on his back, his hand clutching his chest. Five guards converged on him. Sark lashed out his arms and legs, but it was useless. His body screamed for a break, relief, anything. The guards overpowered him, and flipped him on his stomach. Sark felt them handcuff his hands behind his back as his face was pressed in the soil.

            "Try running again, and I'll slit her throat, then yours," one guard hissed in Sark's ear. A rifle was jammed in his back, and Sark knew it was over.

            They were marched back to the Hierarchy compound. The guards took them towards the cell, but suddenly separated them. Sydney went back to the old cell, while the guards forced Sark another way.

            The stone room was empty, except for a huge bin of water in the middle. Halzden stood next to it.

            "Mr. Sark," he started. "Welcome back." He nodded at the guards, and they dragged him to the bin of water. "You look dirty, Mr. Sark. Allow us to give you a Burmese bath."

            Suddenly the guards pushed down on his head, forcing it under the water. Sark didn't even have a moment for another breath.

            The water was ice cold. Sark struggled against the hold, trying desperately to get air. Just when he thought he would start gulping the water, he was pulled back.

            Sark coughed violently, fighting to get water out of his lungs and air in. The guards waited for Halzden's next signal.

            It came and he was ducked again. Sark swallowed a mouthful of water on the way in. He kicked out a leg, trying to get the guards off him as his head thrashed in the water. Something hit his back, hard, and his legs buckled.

            The guards pulled him out again, and threw him across the room. Sark hit the wall, and crumbled to the floor. He coughed several times.

            "I thought you might have been faking your injuries before, Mr. Sark," Halzden said. "It seems I was right. We won't make that mistake again."

            The guards pulled him up and forced him to the bin. The ice-cold water enveloped him again, covering beyond his shoulders. Sark ordered himself to focus on the cold, just to stay conscious. 

            Halzden had Sark starved for air several more times. Sark was hardly awake just from sheer exhaustion when the guards dragged him back to the other cell, and threw him to the floor. The chains went on his feet and to the wall. He breathed in, trying to get some relief.

            They left him in the cell with Sydney. Sark started to shiver from the cold water on his body. His skin was covered in goose bumps, bruises and cuts. His only goal was to calm down so he could breathe normally.

            "Sark, are you okay?" he heard Sydney ask. He didn't answer, but just curled up awkwardly with his hands bound behind him. He tried futilely to preserve any body heat he had left.

            "Sark, talk to me!"

            Sark just nodded, and lay still.

            "Sark?"

            "Yes, Sydney," he answered, but didn't open his eyes.

            "What were you dreaming about, earlier?"

            His eyes opened. "What do you mean?"

            He heard her take a breath. "Before we escaped, you were asleep. You seemed to be . . . in the middle of a nightmare."

            _Did I yell or something?_ He sighed.

            "It wasn't a nightmare," he said. He stopped there, hoping that would satiate her need for answers.

            Instead he heard her sigh and shift around. Sark took a deep breath, and stared at the stone floor.

            "I was remembering how I got in this business," he said. He heard Sydney shift again. _That got her attention_.

            "Project Christmas," she whispered. Sark just laughed.

            "No, not Project Christmas," he said. "I was 16. And I was bored with life. So I sought out your mother."

            Sydney was quiet as she thought that over. "Were you on the streets?" 

            Sark sighed again. _That's the only way she could understand my choice—if I was already down on my luck_. 

            "No," he said. "I was not an orphan, I wasn't brainwashed by the KGB, and I wasn't in a terrible family situation." His face itched, and he did his best to rub it against his shoulder. "I wanted out of normalcy. So I faked my death, and left my home."

            He could almost hear her shock. 

            "You just left? You _chose_ this?!" Her tone held all the incredulity he expected and additional disgust.

            Sark didn't answer. He knew he didn't have to.  He shifted his body to be more comfortable, and tried to block out his surroundings.

            He woke up to cold stones being pelted on him. In reality, a guard dumped a bucket of ice over Sark. His body jerked awake.

            Halzden stood over him. "Let's try answering some questions, Mr. Sark."

            The guards unchained his feet and started taking him to the other room. 

            "Please! Leave him alone!" Sydney yelled as the cell door was shut. Her objections were futile, but Sark was surprised she still tried for him.

            The bin of water was fresh and waiting for him. Halzden snapped his fingers, and Sark was reintroduced to the frigid liquid.

            The guards held his head under water several times. Each time he was allowed air, Halzden asked a question.

            Sark never answered, but it was getting harder and harder to fight the water seeping into his lungs. The session ended with a short beating, and then Sark was dropped back into the cell, emptying his lungs with fitful coughs. He willed himself to sleep before the guards finished chaining him and before he heard Sydney asking him if he was all right.

            They were back too quickly. Another ice bucket. Water, near-drowning. Questions. No answers. Pain. Cold. Sleep.

            At the end of one session, Halzden had the guards overturn the bin on him. A torrent of the frigid water splashed on him, and Sark could only gasp. He caught Halzden's eyes. The man just grinned; it was pure evil. Sark shivered on the wet and dirty stone floor, his half-naked body convulsing as he tried to overcome the iciness he felt all over him.

            He didn't look at Sydney when he was dropped on the floor like a discarded wet rag; he didn't want her pity or words of concern. Sark just prepared himself for the next session.

            They gave him no food, but continued to give Sydney the soupy mix. He didn't care.

             Despite the window he and Sydney had in the cell, Sark lost track of time. He wasn't sure how many days it'd been since his escape attempt with Sydney.

            He just hoped for longer intervals between the torture.

            He noticed the darkness this time. It must have been night when they started the next session.

            After four dunks, Sark was ready for it to stop. He thought back to his family as the guards forced his head under water again.

            _He could see himself with them. He'd probably be done with college or dating some girl right now. His younger siblings would still be at school. Summer vacations with the whole family. More cheesy tourist spots. The same life._

_            But safe._

            He was pulled from the icy water. His lungs were having a harder time with each session. Sark coughed harder and harder, and almost couldn't breathe in the air around him.

            "Again," he heard Halzden say. Sark closed his eyes and didn't even fight the push into the cold.

            _Home.__ He could see it. Suddenly the funeral flashed in his mind. He could see his coffin, but it was open in that hole in the ground. Sark peered into it, only to see himself staring back._

            Suddenly the guards pulled him out. Sark heard a loud noise, but couldn't place it. The guards dropped him, and Sark fell to the floor. He tried to cough out the water. He heard shouts, but they weren't his own.

            Loud pops, like firecrackers.

            _Gunfire_. Sark tried to open his eyes. A swirl of figures moved around him like oil in water. Red mixed in the picture. He tried to figure out what was happening. Nothing was working though.

            He didn't move from the wet stone floor.


	10. Part Ten

Part Ten

            The first thing that registered in his mind was the warmth. Sark slowly opened his eyes. A dark blanket covered him up to his chin. He could hear a muted buzzing all around him.

            He was in a plane. It was smaller, and plush. _Jet. His body was stretched over a couch. Sark moved his arms, and heard the familiar rattle of metal._

            His hands were still handcuffed, although this time in front of him. He pushed down the blanket to double check.

            His chest was still bare except for the wounds, and his jeans were no longer anything close to blue. _Although they're quite worn now. Even his feet were still bare. Sark tried to sit up, but something held him back._

            _Seat belt_. Two of them, he discovered. He was strapped down at the waist and legs.

            Sark swallowed.

            "He's awake." The face came into view. It was Agent Vaughn. 

            "Let him up, Vaughn." It was Sydney. They shot each other looks, challenging each other. Sark coughed.

            "What happened?" he asked. His voice was raspy. He tried to clear his throat, but nothing helped.

            Vaughn answered. "We received a tape of the Hierarchy torturing you and Sydney. We tracked the Hierarchy down outside Akyab, Burma, where you and Sydney were being held."

            Sark almost smiled. _Irina._ She forwarded the tape to the CIA. _She knew they'd rescue __Sydney__. And she never put herself or her operations at risk._

_            Typical, but brilliant._

            "We came in last night and raided their compound. You were being interrogated when we went in," Vaughn said.

            Sark tried to clear his throat again. "I suppose I ought to thank you then."

            "No," he answered quickly. "We're taking you back to CIA headquarters in Los Angeles."

            Sydney immediately started to object. "Vaughn, how can—"

            "Syd, you should get some rest." Vaughn gently pulled her away from Sark.

            Sark closed his eyes, and rested his head back on the couch. _From the clutches of one enemy to another. _He normally would have stayed awake to strategize an escape.

            But this time Sark was too worn out to care. He tried to stretch, but pain reintroduced itself to Sark. He grimaced, and waited for another dose of sleep.

            He awoke in a glass cell, open for the world to see. Sark lay on a metal cot. He was still dressed in only his jeans, but at least the handcuffs were gone now. 

            Sark tried to stand, but his knees immediately buckled under his weight. He stayed on his hands and knees, trying to compose himself for another try.

            Instead, he rolled onto his back.

            _This must be the Joint Task Force center. _He glanced around the cell. A tray of food was on the floor, and a change of clothes by a shower and sink. _At least this is a four-star prison._

            He started with food. It was a three-course meal compared to the soup in Burma. It also gave him enough strength to try standing again. 

            Sark started by pacing the cell once. He steadied himself with a hand against the walls. The cell was small, but there was at least a bare-bones shower, sink and toilet. _Lovely._

            When he finished a round, he turned to find someone on the other side of the glass.

            It was Agent Vaughn again. Sark rolled his eyes.

            "Agent Bristow has requested that you see a medic, given your condition. If you're ready, I'll send one in."

            Sark smirked at the agent. "I think a shower would be better first. Give me a few minutes," he said, almost ordering Vaughn. "I have enough dirt and grime on me to recreate the Burmese forest."

            Vaughn nodded and left, and Sark turned to the expose shower. He sighed. _At least it's clean_.

            The medic was actual appalled by the number of cuts and bruises. Sark smirked at that. _Oh please. Like they don't torture terrorists here_. The medic disinfected the wounds and bandaged what he could. He patched up a gash on Sark's cheekbone, and stitched another in his hairline. 

            Guards monitored the whole thing, especially when the medic pulled out a syringe.

            "I recommend a Tetanus shot, as well as a series of anti-bacterial injections," the medic said. Sark almost laughed. _Tetanus was the last thing I was worried about_. But he nodded for the man to give him the shots.

            He was left alone for awhile. Sark thought about Sydney. He couldn't remember what she looked like on the plane, or if he'd even seen her. _Did the Hierarchy hurt her?_ He hadn't really _seen_ her since they were recaptured.

            He recalled the mudslide. He'd almost lost her there. But after he had saved her, he almost kissed her. _And she seemed all right with that._

            He wondered if that would change anything for him.

            _Probably not. She knows what you really are now_.

            He slept for awhile, until someone banged on the glass. Sark jumped, half expecting a bucket of ice or cold water thrown on him. He relaxed when he remembered where he was.

            Until he saw it was Brianne.

            She looked miffed, to put it mildly. Sark sighed and stood slowly.

            "Hello, Brianne," he said politely. His accent was worn and raspy still, but he continued. "You look well."

            Her eyes narrowed to slits at him. "You bastard."

            "I'm not, actually, but I understand why you're angry," Sark began. "I apologize for my deception."

            She huffed at that. 

            "_You_ are the deception," she said forcefully. "You used me. And I actually cared about you."

            She _was_ still hurting, Sark realized. _Sydney__ was right. Sark decided to make things easier for Brianne._

            "Yes, I have that effect on women. I used you—it's what I do, among other things," Sark said. The effect on her was instantaneous, but he pressed on. "You should thank Agent Bristow for recognizing me, or you might be dead by now."

            Brianne banged her hands against the glass, her eyes livid.

            Sark smirked at her. "You want to hit me, Brianne? I don't think you'll get the chance. Even if the guards let you in here, your life would be in more danger than mine." He let his eyes be cold and icy, just to emphasize his point. He saw her eyes well up with unshed tears, and suddenly she turned and left quickly.

            Sark sighed. _That was harsh, but effective. She definitely hates me now_. He went back to his cot and lay down.

            His next visitors consisted of a group of CIA agents.  Sark named them off as he recognized them: _Jack Bristow, Vaughn, Weiss, Sydney. . . ._

            Sydney looked good, Sark noticed with some relief. Aside from the Hierarchy's videotaped hit, she didn't look like she'd been touched. Her hair was soft and flowed onto her shoulders. Her eyes gazed into him, and he stared back.

            "Glad to see you're okay, Miss Bristow," he said politely for all to hear. He looked back at the rest. 

            Jack Bristow spoke. "The raid in Burma destroyed a substantial portion of the Hierarchy. They're severely crippled."

            Sark's eyes fired up momentarily. "Does that mean they still exist?"

            Jack nodded, and Sark started to pace.

            "What about Halzden?" he asked. Jack looked to Sydney, who spoke up.

            "The team didn't get him. He escaped," she said. Sark started to laugh, not because of humor, but to mock those before him.

            "Halzden was in the cell, torturing me. There was only one way in and out of that cell. And he escaped?" Sark bit the inside of his cheek, frustrated. "Government organizations—they're never efficient."

            Vaughn started to argue, but a look from Jack silenced him.

            "We've been discussing your fate, Sark," Jack said. "Irina Derevko is still at large. You'll help us find her."

            Sark laughed again. "I've spent days with the Hierarchy, and never told them anything about Irina. Sydney can attest to that. What makes you think I'll tell the CIA?"

            Jack answered with his stone face. "Because we'll have you for the rest of your life, not just days." With that, he turned and left the cell area.

            Sydney tried to linger, but Vaughn escorted her out. She looked straight at Sark, her eyes pleading something to him. He wasn't sure what.

            Sark was left alone.

            The CIA's questions began the next day. Jack Bristow conducted the interrogation himself, just on the other side of the glass cell. Sark didn't say a word to Jack. The agent left, his jaw set and mouth tight.

            Sark was grateful that they weren't going to torture him just yet, but he knew it wouldn't last. _When they perceive that I'm well enough, it'll start. _Even Sydney wouldn't be able to fight that.

            The fruitless questioning continued for four days. On the fifth day, Sydney came to the cell.

            "Sark," she began, her voice shaking. Concern clouded Sark's face as he wondered what was wrong. "My father . . . he's been kidnapped."

            _The Hierarchy_.

            "We received a ransom demand this morning," she continued, "from my mother." Sark's jaw dropped, but he couldn't help but smile eventually as he realized the plan. 

            "My mother wants a trade."

            "Me for your father," Sark filled in. _Irina knew she could get me out of CIA's custody._

            Sydney nodded, and Sark couldn't help but laugh.

            "I'm sorry, Sydney," he said, "but you can't blame me for being happy at this turn of events."

            She glanced down at the floor, then looked back up at him. 

            "Sark," she began, "I want you to know that I begged them to let you go." Sark took a step back. "I told them how much you suffered, how you protected me. But the CIA—"

            "Sydney," he said softly. "It's all right." She stared at him, her eyes shimmering. Sark stared back, his eyes piercing into her. "You are so beautiful," he whispered. It was so quiet, she almost didn't hear it.

            "Sark," she started, after a deep breath, "We never—"

            Sark just held up a hand to stop her.

            "I know."

            The switch was made the following day. As Sark and Jack crossed paths, he could have sworn that Jack was going to pounce on him and kill him with his bare hands.

            Jack restrained himself. Sark made it safely to some of Irina's men.

            "Mr. Sark," they greeted him. He nodded, and got into a waiting car.

            "Scan me immediately for any tracking devices," he ordered one of the men. He was clean.

            "Ms. Derevko instructed for us to fly you to the base in Italy."

            Sark nodded, and sat back. He was free.

            "I'm glad you're all right," Irina said. Her dark hair was tied back.

            "Thank you for the extraction," Sark said. "A nice play, kidnapping Jack Bristow." Irina smiled.

            "I thought so." She dropped the smile, and got to business. "What happened in Burma?"

            Sark's eyes darkened. "I learned Allison was the Hierarchy's source."

            "Are you sure?"

            "I'll verify it before I kill her." 

            Irina nodded at that. "The Hierarchy is still up and running. I plan to send a team soon."

            Sark's eyes blazed at that thought, and Irina noticed. "I'd like to handle the Hierarchy myself." 

            Irina smiled, that soft, knowing smile that showed her amusement and pleasure. "It's good to have you back."

            Sark nodded, and left her.

            Jamaica. The sun felt great, especially compared to Burma. Sark wore light-weight khakis and a light blue dress shirt only half buttoned. He added sunglasses and started heading to his destination.

            He waited inside Allison's flat. It was about noon, and Sark helped himself to a drink from her fridge.

            He heard a key in the lock and laughter as Allison and a man entered the flat. Sark just watched them as he continued to sip at his drink. 

            She was flirting with the man. Both were happily engrossed in each other. Sark smirked at the sight, until he realized he recognized the man.

            He was one of the guards from Burma. _Hierarchy_. It was the same man who cut Sark up, who took his knife. Sark narrowed his eyes, and placed a hand on the silenced gun tucked at the small of his back.

            The guard said something to make Allison laugh even more. Their flirting was starting to disgust Sark.

            "I hope I'm not interrupting," he said, breaking their solitude. Allison whirled around and gasped as she faced Sark.

            "Sark! What are you—are you okay? I heard about Burma," she said. Her eyes held fear and hope. _Hope that I'll buy her lies._

            "I'm fine," he said coldly. He smiled at her, but not to loosen her up. It was to make her even more frightened. He hardly ever smiled at her.

            The guard started to creep back, no doubt going for some weapon. Sark stopped him with fake kindness. 

            "And who is this?" Sark asked Allison. The guard stood straighter, and his eyes showed panic with fear of discovery.

            Sark extended a hand to the guard. The guard hesitantly took it.

            "Uh, I'm a friend. My name is—"

            Sark didn't let him finish. He yanked the guard's arm past him, flinging the guard to the floor at Allison's feet. In the same movement, Sark whipped out his gun and aimed it at the guard's head.

            "I know who you are," he hissed. He fired one shot at the man's knee. Allison screamed. "Shut up, Allie."

            She backed up until her back hit a wall. Sark glared at her, holding her there with his eyes. He turned back to the guard.

            "Where's Halzden?" 

            The guard was groaning, grasping his knee. "You shot me!"

            Sark smirked happily at that. "Brilliant observation. You cut me, remember? Speaking of, where's my knife?" Sark patted the man down, while keeping an eye on Allison. He felt something in the man's boot, and Sark removed the knife and sheath victoriously.

            "Ah, there it is," Sark said to himself. He shot the man again, this time in the right shoulder. The man passed out from the pain.

            Sark pocketed the knife, and glared at Allison.

            "Please, Sark, I—" she started.

            "You what?" Sark mocked. "You gave the Hierarchy information about The Man. About me. And about Sydney Bristow."

            Anger washed over her face. "It still comes back to her, doesn't it?" She took a step toward Sark, but he didn't raise the gun. He didn't need it for her.

            "You are a silly girl, Allison," Sark mused aloud. "You betrayed us, and you never ensured that it wouldn't come back to bite you. You allied yourself with a group that is inefficient, disorganized, and even disrespectful."

            "Disrespectful?!" The bewilderment on her face made him laugh. 

            "You'd understand if you were there in Burma," Sark said. He took a few steps toward her, until he pinned her against the wall. "Now Allison, you're going to tell me everything you know about the Hierarchy."


	11. Part Eleven

a/n: Thanks to sallene for her help and advice!

Part Eleven

            Ice ran through Sark's veins as he left the warmth of Jamaica. He'd left the bodies of Allison and the guard on the floor of her flat. He called the police once he was on the plane—he wanted their bodies found.

            "What did you find out?" he heard Irina ask over the phone.

            "It was Allison. I'm headed to Nicaragua right now. There's another base in Tunisia. It's weaker but still around," Sark said.

            "I'll send a team there," Irina said. Sark nodded into the phone.

            "I've uploaded the intel to you."

            Sark was about to hang up when he heard Irina say something more.

            "Who's backing you up in Nicaragua?"

            Sark responded like a machine. "No one. I'll call you when I'm done."

            Nicaragua was more jungle than anything else, at least where the Hierarchy chose to be. He wasn't surprised by that, not after Burma. 

            The black tactical gear hugged Sark's body. In every available pocket or pouch, Sark packed extra clips of ammunition, grenades, timed explosives, anything and everything.

            He pulled a ski mask over his face, and headed into the thick jungle. The bugs hushed as he went by. 

            Sark counted five guards around the perimeter of the building. It was simple concrete, just a square building. Sark crouched down in the foliage. He aimed one of his silenced guns at a guard, and pulled the trigger.

            He changed positions, and took out the second guard. Within four minutes, Sark had all five guards neutralized.

            There were cameras, of course, but Sark wasn't worried about them. He crept to the building, out of view of the cameras. He picked a lock and slipped inside the building. 

            The voices he heard were calm, unaware of the danger among them. Sark smirked as he planted an explosive behind a door.

            He moved toward the voices, stopping just around the corner from them. His hand searched for a dental mirror, which he used to check the numbers against him.

            The mirror showed eleven men, all sitting around, chatting. Sark got a grenade out, and pulled the pin out. He tossed the grenade around the corner.

            The room exploded three seconds later. Sark followed in, sweeping the room for survivors. He shot anyone that still moved.

            Fire and security alarms sounded, and Sark picked up his pace. He had a gun in each hand as he ran throughout the building.

            He fired with zero hesitation at any man around him. A spray of bullets hit by his shoulder, and Sark kneeled on one knee as he turned around to face the shooter. Sark fired three shots, and continued on.

            The top floor was where the Hierarchy's leaders were. Sark ran up a flight of stairs, planting another timed explosive along the way. The bland off-white walls blurred together as Sark focused ahead.

            His foot just barely stepped on the second to highest floor's flight of stairs when Sark heard panicking shouts ahead of him. Sark stepped back down, and hid behind the turn of the stairs. He heard panting breaths as his prey came to him.

            _Three, two, one—_ Sark jumped into the path of the prey. He smirked at the two men, dressed in their cheap suits and untouchable façades. His lips twitched and Sark pulled the trigger. He studied their faces, contorted in shock as the bullets ended their lives. The men looked like hired guns—bodyguards. 

            _Bodyguards for whom?_

            Sark continued his ascent. He kicked open the door to the top level, and quickly crouched to the ground.

            Footsteps echoed down one hallway. Sark's head snapped to the source. He got to his feet and took off after the next target.

            His heart beat steadily, humming along with the determined rhythm of his mind. 

            The prey stopped. Sark couldn't hear footsteps anymore. He smiled, pleased at the challenge.

            Sark paced carefully, silently through the halls. He tuned out the beat of his heart, and listened for his target's.

            Ragged breathing . . . Sark was close. He approached an open door to a large office. Sark noted the lavish but precise décor. Oversized couches, leather armchairs, a walnut desk that expanded like the British Empire in the colonial era. . . 

            Sark heard someone charge before he could be hit, and quickly sidestepped the attack. He swiveled on one foot, and rotated his body around to hit the man in the back.

            His would-be attacker fell into the leather arm chair. Sark calmly stalked toward him, like a patient tiger who knows the outcome. The man's chest heaved, and his eyes widened at the sight of the dark intruder. Sark smirked at that.

            "Please! What do you want? I can give it to you!" the man pleaded. Sark laughed as he leveled his gun at the man's head.

            "Really. Who are you?" Sark asked. He was ticked off that it wasn't Halzden. _But he could be one of the three leaders. The man could easily have been from Singapore._

            "Shenton Ghaut."

            "What are you offering me, Ghaut?" Sark said. The man looked surprised at that.

            "I have bank accounts, totaling $40 million. I can give you access to them." He looked pleased and relieved that he might be able to buy his way out of death.

            Sark put his gun down on a coffee table.

            "That's not enough," Sark stated simply. Ghaut stammered. "In truth, nothing you have is enough." Sark lifted one foot and reached into his boot. He slowly removed his knife from his boot. The blade singed against the metal sheath.

            "Wait, wait! There must be something," he said, hoping he was right.

            Sark just smiled. "Tell me where Halzden is, and I'll make this quick."

            Ghaut's eyes were wide, and his lip quivered with fear. "He's dead. He was in Burma when he died."

            Sark smirked at that. _Halzden is hiding_. It was possible that Ghaut was telling the truth. It was also possible that he was protecting Halzden.

            He didn't care either way; he would find Halzden, and eradicate the last of the Hierarchy.

            Suddenly Sark lunged forward, plunging the knife into Ghaut's heart. The man's eyes bulged, and his lungs hissed out a breath. Sark just glared at the man for a moment.

            "I think you were telling the truth," he whispered to the dying man. With that, Sark twisted the blade hard to the right, and yanked it out of Ghaut's flesh.

            Sark watched the body for a moment. He wiped the blood off on Ghaut's suit. The knife slid back into his boot, and Sark turned to leave.

            And stopped. Standing in the doorway was Sydney. 

            "Sydney," he said with a nod.

            Sark noticed the automatic rifle she held. It was pointed at the ground, but she clutched it tightly. 

            "You beat me to it," she said, referring to taking down the Hierarchy.

            Sark shook his head. "No, I spared you from having to do it." He walked toward Sydney, and she raised the rifle at him.

            "We have to get out of here, Sydney. I've set timers for  . . ." He checked his watch, "Two minutes."

            Sydney touched her earpiece. "There are bombs in the building. Evacuate immediately."

            Sark smiled at that.

            "Let's go."

            They hurried down the stairs, and out of the building as the seconds ticked down. Sark led the way out to the foliage just as the first round of explosives went off.

            The force of the blast sent him to his knees. Sydney fell beside him. The heat washed over them and the jungle. Birds and wildlife shrieked and scurried for safety. But he heard only the flames after the second explosion. 

            "Everyone okay?" Sydney said into her comms. She listened for answers as Sark gazed at her. When she looked at him, he averted his gaze to the ground.

            "I have to go," he said, standing up and turning away. Sydney got to her feet quickly.

            "Sark, wait," she said. Sark turned back, fully expecting to see her gun in his face. Instead, he saw her eyes. They pleaded with him again, but he didn't know why. She looked torn, confused.

            "What?" Sark prompted.

            "How . . ." she started. "Why do you always come back to this?"

            Sark took a step to her. "To what?"

            Sydney sighed, looking away from his hypnotizing eyes. She pointed to her gun, the burning building, to him . . .

            "To this life," she almost whispered. Her eyes filled up with emotion. "Why do you choose it over and over again?" He had never seen her so distressed before. The sadness in her eyes was overbearing; it started to make him feel sorry for himself.

            Sark turned away from her abruptly. He willed himself to be the strong, cold man he'd been for years.

            "Habit," he answered. Sark looked over his shoulder at her. "Goodbye, Sydney." 

            Sark ran and disappeared into the Nicaraguan jungle.

            Irina was reservedly pleased when he reported the Hierarchy's demise.

            "The Tunisian base is destroyed as well," she said. "Good work."

            "Thank you," Sark replied. 

            "The Hierarchy was a threat that we didn't fully prepare for. I'm pleased with how you handled it," Irina said. Reading between the lines, Sark knew she was saying thanks for resisting the Hierarchy, and ultimately destroying them. "The word's out about their fall. And rumors are flying around in the organization about Allison."

            "Good," Sark said. "That should discourage any potential traitors."

            "Yes," was all Irina said in reply. She paused for a moment. "You should take some time off. Rest up and have a vacation."

            Sark objected immediately. "Halzden is still out there. I'd like to correct that." Irina smiled at his reserved anger.

            "Take a break. I'll have my sources track him down." Sark opened his mouth to object, but Irina shot him a look.

            Sark simply nodded. "You'll contact me when you find him?"

            Irina gave him a short nod. "Where are you going?"

            Sark hesitated. He knew his answer would clue Irina in to what was going on within him. "Probably London and Galway."

            She didn't rub it in, but simply told him to have a good trip.

            London was comfortable for Sark. He could blend in easily and just relax. Today he thought back to a vacation his parents had dragged him on.

            They had visited Buckingham Palace when he was fifteen. Sark had complained the whole time, thinking it was boring to walk around a huge, gated mansion.

            He went there today. The weather was overcast, like it always seemed to be when he visited London. Sark pulled the leather coat tighter around him. He smiled as he noticed the jeans he wore.

            He bought another pair as soon as he got into town.

            Sark strolled around the palace. He looked up every now and then, but mainly looked at his feet as he thought back to one of his family's visits here.

            _"Come on, Julian!" his father called. He barely picked up his pace, and just walked behind his parents, while his younger brother and sister teased each other._

_            His mother turned back to wait for him. She took his arm, smiling at him in her loving way, and paced the way around the palace with him._

            Sark smiled sadly at the ground. He glanced up at the peaks of the palace. It was taller than he remembered.

            A crowd of tourists walked by Sark. Their chatter interrupted his solitude, but Sark stepped aside and just watched them walk by. He could hear the guide speaking over the megaphone, saying something about the change of guards.

            A gust of wind whipped through him, and Sark hurried to flip the collar of his jacket up against his neck.

            "We haven't been back since before Julian died." Sark could imagine his parents saying it on their next visit.

            Sark froze. He quickly realized he didn't imagine that. Sark snapped his head up, looking around for the speaker. 

            At the back of the tourist group stood four people. They were older, especially his siblings. _But it's them_. His mother had spoken, and his father now laid a consoling hand on her shoulder. Sark saw her wipe her eyes.

            _It can't be_. He hadn't checked up on his family, ever. 

            But he knew it was them. His sister, Ilene, was tall, probably 5'9." His brother, Calvin, no longer teased her, but looked around, appearing interested. He was taller too. _He must be 18 now_, Sark thought. His blonde hair was longer, and it curled around his neck. Ilene suddenly pulled at his hair.

            "When will you get that cut?" she teased. Sark froze. Her voice was almost identical to his mother's. _Ilene's probably 21 now_. Sark couldn't remember their birthdays.

            Sark felt a pang in his chest. _How did I leave this? A lump rose in his throat as he watched them walk on with the tour._

            _Stop them!_

            The Sark in him ordered him to stay put. _I made my choice eight years ago. Sark just stared after them, staying rooted to his spot in the middle of the plaza around Buckingham Palace._

            Over a bottle of Chateau Petreuse, Sark started to feel better. Well, not better, but not as bad. The dull ache in his chest was starting to recede. 

            But the question 'why' kept popping up in his mind.

            Why did he let them walk on?

            Why did he leave them years ago?

            Why was he still here?

            He didn't have the answers. So he took a long draw from the bottle. 

            _You could have gone back_. Sark chastised that thought.

            _There is no going back._ He made the decision, and lived with it quite contently for eight years. _It's too late to change my mind_.

            _Just like it's too late to change Sydney's mind_. He knew he'd sealed her judgment of him when he murdered Ghaut and everyone else in Nicaragua, and when he told her he wouldn't leave the life she hated. 

            Sark had shown her that despite their time together in Burma, he hadn't changed. He couldn't change.

            He never would.

            He tortured himself further by going to Ireland the next day. The cemetery in Galway was large. It went on for forty acres. Sark left his rental car at the gate, and just walked through.

            It was a bright day. The sun reflected off the lush green grass. Everything looked so cheery, despite the site and its purpose.

            He didn't remember where he was 'buried,' so Sark just wandered. He walked without looking at the names on the stones around him.

            _Sydney_. If there was one person he felt could redeem him, it was her. Something about her drew his attention and devotion.

            It wasn't just because she was Irina's daughter. It went beyond that. Sydney was so different from Irina. Different from Allison. From Brianne. From every woman in the world. Her severe passion about life, others, her job . . . Sydney originally caught Sark's eye just with her abilities as a spy. As he studied her and encountered her again and again on missions, his admiration expanded to her as a whole. 

            With that same thought, Sark knew she would never see admiration for him. In Burma, she'd seen glimpses of him that she liked; the fierce protector, the sacrificial lamb, a confidant. But as a whole, Sark was still the machine she always suspected. 

            _And she knows it's not because of anyone else's doing._

            Sark's eyes wander over the headstones. They stopped on a familiar name.

            _My name._

            Sark kneeled down in front of the headstone. He took off his jacket, tossing it aside. His fingers traced the years of his supposed life. His eyes scanned over the parting message.

            _Beloved son and strong brother. We'll always love you_.

            Something rose in the back of his throat. His chest heaved, almost convulsing. A dry sob escaped from his throat, and Sark couldn't hold anything back.

            He heaved once more, and then sob after sob racked his body. The tears threatened to fall.

            Maybe they did. But his face and eyes stayed dry. 

            Sark walked slowly back to his car, staring at the grass. The blades bent over in the breeze. The sun was starting its descent, and the orange and pink shadows it cast on the earth were beautiful. He sighed loudly for no one to hear.

            And stopped in his tracks when he saw Sydney, casually leaning against his car.

            She looked more beautiful than any sunset. Her hair flowed with the wind, and she smiled quickly at him. 

            "Hi," she said, somewhat tentatively. Her eyes looked . . . hopeful. Sark furrowed his brow, confused.

            "Obviously, I didn't expect to see you, much less here," Sark said. Sydney smiled again and looked away.

            "My mother told me you were here."

            Sark almost laughed. _Irina_. She always knew.

            "It's somewhat disturbing that I'm that predictable," Sark mused. It drew a slight laugh from Sydney.

            "Are you alone?" Sark asked her. She nodded. "Why are you here?"

            Her smile disappeared. Sark almost regretted cutting to the chase, but his mind and heart could only take so much.

            "I needed to know something." Sydney measured each word carefully, and Sark could tell. _It's as if she is making sure she doesn't upset me_. Sark instantly hated himself for making her feel that she had to be so cautious around him.

            "When we were in Burma, you risked your life to protect me," she said. She looked at him directly. "You saved me, from the Hierarchy, torture, and even a mudslide."

            Sark didn't answer, unsure of where she was headed.

            "I thought it was because of your extreme loyalty to my mother. You knew she would want me safe," Sydney said. She nervously tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "But then you told me about you and your family. I never expected you to tell me anything so . . . personal."

            Sark looked away, then back at her. "I'm sorry, I don't see where you're headed with this," he said with a touch of hurry.

            Sydney sighed and banged her hand on the car in frustration.

            "Why do you do this?! Why do you push everything away? Have you not learned anything?!"

            Sark opened his mouth, but Sydney cut him off.

            "You're so determined to stay 'safe' in this harsh world you've chosen. And you're so afraid of admitting you were wrong that you won't even consider going back."

            Sark stepped toward Sydney suddenly, his face stern and flushed.

            "Going back? To what, Sydney?" He ran a hand through his blonde hair. "I have what I've worked for. Why would I seek out anything else?"

            He said the words, but he didn't mean them. He didn't care about what he claimed to. 

            "Sark, you made a mistake. Something you've paid for dearly for years. You paid for it in Burma. And you'll keep paying for it, unless you get over it."

            "Over what, Sydney?" Sark said, sighing. He didn't want to argue, not anymore.

            "Over your bad choices and on with your life," she said. Sark opened his mouth to object, but she pressed on. "This isn't your life. Go back to it, to your family. Start over."

            Sark laughed, mocking her.

            "Start over? I don't see you rushing to leave the ranks of the CIA," he said. Sydney hesitated. "That's right. It's not so easy. You know how hard it is. There's no leaving this life, Sydney."

            Sark turned away from Sydney and walked around to the driver's side. He opened the car door and was about to get in when Sydney rushed around and grabbed the front of his shirt.

            She balled the fabric in her hands, and slammed his back against the car.

            "Why are you so stubborn?" she hissed at him. Sark smirked at that.

            "You're one to talk, Miss Bristow."

            She hit him, hard and over the fading scar on his cheekbone. Sark grunted as his head whipped to a side with the impact.

            "Thank you for proving my point," he mumbled. His fingers gingerly touched the impacted area.

            "Has it not dawned on you why I'm here?" Sydney said. Her voice was softer, but still determined.

            "Yes," Sark said. "You're here to save me." Sydney stepped back. "And I don't need you for that."

            She swallowed, and that sadness crept back into her eyes. Sark got in the car, and pulled the door shut. He quickly turned on the car, and sped out of the cemetery without looking back.

            He wanted her words to not affect him. It was easier that way. He wanted to go back to being the Sark he set out to be: cold, calculating, fearless . . . unstoppable. 

            Ireland didn't help. Being back only made it harder to be Sark.

            And Sydney didn't help. Sark felt bitter; _she only wants to change me and save me from myself._

            Sark walked into his hotel room, and went straight for the balcony. The wind ruffled his hair. He clenched the cold metal railing, his knuckles tight and paler than usual. Sark looked down over the city.

            _What do I even want anymore?_

            And suddenly he knew.

            Sark stopped by the concierge on his way out.

            "Do you have a city directory?" he asked. The concierge gave him the book. Sark flipped through it frantically.

            He found the address, and was astounded.

            His family was still at the same house. _They never moved. _

            He sped to that part of the city, stopping three blocks away. Sark walked with purpose in the shadows. A million thoughts and emotions ran through him, but they all were silenced when he saw it.

            Time and the elements had taken its toll on the house, but it still was the same to him. Sark noticed the window to his room.

            He had snuck out of it to get his teeth extracted the night before he left.

            Sark went towards the house, as if drawn to it. It was dark, and no vehicles were parked outside the home. The front door was locked, but Sark easily picked it and walked in.

            The lights were off. _Probably still in London_. The house smelled like mulberry. His mom always liked that scent, and constantly boiled potpourri to comfort her senses. Sark walked through the hallway to the kitchen. 

            The hard wood floors creaked now. There were scratches in the counter tops. The fridge was new. Sark opened it; it was fully stocked. His mom always kept it filled, concerned her children wouldn't get enough to eat.

            Sark shut the fridge and moved through the house.

            The dining room. It was only used for holidays and rare visits from family and business associates. The solid wood table still shined, no doubt from the meticulous weekly polishings.

            The family room. Too many decorative pillows were scattered around the room on the floor and furniture. The draperies were new, or new to him. 

            His father's office. It was exactly as he remembered it. Sark went to the large desk, kneeling by the drawers. He pulled out the drawer where he took his father's knife eight years ago.

            The space was empty, near the back of the drawer.

            The bedrooms had changed. Instead of childish designs and pictures, Calvin's room was littered with posters and books. Ilene's room was no longer pink, but a soft shade of lavender. _She always liked that color. Her room was neat, almost unlived in. __She probably lives elsewhere now._

            Sark moved on, and stopped outside his old room. The door was shut. Sark stared at it for several seconds before he reached for the door knob.

            Air rushed past him as the door opened. The room smelled dusty. Untouched.

            It was almost exactly how he left it. His bed had been made, and his things were straightened and tidied up. But beyond that, it was left alone.

            It surprised him, and hurt him at the same time. He half-hoped they had changed it around or made it a guest room. It would be easier to justify everything. Instead, they had kept it as almost a shrine.

            _They've held onto this all. Onto me, all these years._

            Guilt hit him like a rifle in the stomach. He sat on his bed, carefully so he didn't disturb the perfectly placed bedspread.

            It was almost an out-of-body experience for him. He ran his hand over the bedspread, the fabric soft but dusty. He lifted his hand up to the night street lights, seeing the dust cling to his fingertips.

            He felt that lump rise again in his throat. His chest started to expand and contract quickly. The first sob came, and its force twisted his stomach. Sark felt the pain, physical and emotional, and ran for the bathroom.

            He threw up, retching several times into the toilet. His chest felt like it was on fire. He clutched it, and he could almost feel the wounds from Burma splitting apart. 

            Tears fell, dripping down his face. Sark struggled to breathe calmly. He leaned over the toilet seat for several minutes, just trying to regain control. Finally, he ran a hand over his face, wiping away the wet tears.

            He flushed the toilet and turned on the sink, splashing clean water on his face. He turned off the faucet, and was drying his face when he heard something.

            It sounded like a car door shutting. Sark tensed, and went back to his old room. Through the window he saw them.

            His family. 


	12. Part Twelve

a/n: Thanks to sallene, as always!

Part Twelve

            They looked tired, dragging luggage and their feet. Sark froze where he stood.

            _Leave! Now!_

            They were inside the house now, sighing and chatting as they came in. _They'll come up any minute_.

            Sark reached for the window, ready to slide it open and escape again. And suddenly, he remembered what Sydney had said.

            _"You're so determined to stay 'safe' in this harsh world you've chosen. And you're so afraid of admitting you were wrong that you won't even consider going back."_

            His hand hung mid-air, just inches from the window. Sark slowly lowered his hand.

            His heart picked up its pace. Sark turned around, and walked out of the room. His footsteps sounded like lead against a hard floor. As he stepped out to go downstairs to where his family was, Sark hesitated again.

            _Is this what I want?_

            Voices came from the kitchen. Sark saw the luggage, discarded at the foot of the stairs. Sark glanced at the front door, clear for him to slip through. He took a full breath, and moved for the kitchen.

            The second his family came into view, Sark froze in the shadows. He watched them; they smiled despite the late hour. Enjoying a midnight snack. Chatting and glad to be home even though they enjoyed the vacation.

            _How will they ever forgive me?_

            He remembered his headstone. _We'll always love you._

            Sark took a step forward, and a loose floorboard creaked.

            His mother heard it and shrieked. His father quickly turned, and upon seeing Sark, stepped protectively in front of his wife and kids.

            "What do you want!" he shouted in his strong Irish accent. Ilene looked petrified, and Calvin looked ready for a fight.

            "Get out!" his mother shrieked again.

            Sark held up his hands, and slowly stepped towards them. As the shadows receded and Sark came into the light, he saw confusion come over everyone's faces.

            "I'm not here to harm anyone," Sark said. He instantly looked down at the floor for a moment upon hearing his own voice. The British accent was normal for him, but somewhat foreign to them. It was a quick reminder of how much he'd changed.

            "Who are you?" his father demanded. His tone warned Sark not to try anything. Sark smirked at that.

            "I don't blame you for not recognizing me," he said. "It's been eight years." Ilene's eyes widened at that. His parents and brother still looked confused.          "It can't be," Sark heard her whisper. He smiled at that. "Julian?"

            Everyone gasped, and Sark almost joined them. Hearing his name from them . . . it was surreal again.

            His mother stepped toward him, past her husband's challenging frame. 

            "Is it you?" she whispered, taking another step. The hesitant joy that threatened to explode on her face made Sark swallow back that damn lump.

            "It's me."

            The reunion was awkward at best. Calvin was convinced Sark wasn't real. His dad was cautious, as if this was a scam of sorts. But Sark's mother and sister hugged him so tight. He was almost shocked at the physical contact too—no one had hugged him since he was 16. 

            "Have you been alive all this time?" his mother asked. Sark almost snickered at that. 

            "Obviously, yes."

            "If it's really you, then where have you been?" his father asked, quizzing Sark. "We buried you!"

            "No, you buried teeth. Four wisdom teeth and a back molar," Sark said. His father hesitated, but then readied himself for another question.

            Sark sighed, and bent over to his boot. He pulled out the knife and sheath. The women immediately stepped back, suddenly fearful, while Calvin and his father stepped forward. Sark gave them a smirk, and tossed the knife to his father. He raised his chin, somewhat defiantly. His father opened his mouth to reply one way, but stopped as if he didn't know what to believe.

            "You kept this in the back of your desk drawer. I've had it with me for these 8 years." 

            "You took it?" Calvin tried to clarify. Sark nodded. He was hesitant to explain anything, but he knew he would have to, one day. Calvin was putting it together, that at least Sark had left willfully. "So did—"

            Sark's cell phone rang. He rolled his eyes at that. _Of all the moments . . ._

            It was Irina.

            "I apologize, but I must answer this," Sark said politely. He answered the call, and turned away. "Yes," he answered.

            "Did Sydney find you?"

            "Yes."

            "I hope I wasn't too forward in letting her know where you are," Irina said. Sark knew she would have done it again even if it was too forward.

            "I was surprised," Sark said simply. He was quite aware of the four people in front of him, asking a million questions in their minds.

            "I found Halzden."

            Sark immediately shut out his family's presence.

            "Where?"

            "Russia. But there's something you should know." Irina paused, getting Sark's attention even more. "I've received reports that various government agencies are trying to find you."

            Sark closed his eyes at that. _Only governments would be stupid enough to still pursue me. Every private organization received the warning message loud and clear when the Hierarchy fell._

            "Which ones?" he asked, tucking away his annoyance.

            "British, Russian, and American," she said simply. "They've tracked you to Ireland. Be careful."

            _Careful._ It was almost a foreign idea in this business. Sark sighed, and looked back up at his family.

            "I'm sorry. I realize you have a lot of questions for me," Sark said, measuring each word. "But it's imperative that I leave now." He looked purposefully at each person, giving them a sad smile.

            Sark turned and walked out the door. He heard his family protest.

            "Wait!"

            "Where are you going?"

            "When will you be back?" That was his mother. 

            Sark stopped and turned back to them. 

            "I need to take care of something. But I'll come back, if that's all right." Sark didn't wait for an answer. He walked quickly down the street, and disappeared into the night.

            Sark flew to St. Petersburg, Russia.

            He knew he had two problems. One was Halzden; the second was all these ridiculous agencies trying to capture him. 

            From those problems came more complications. Sark knew his family could not be discovered. He wasn't worried about the CIA, but the Russians might use his family as leverage. Plus, he wasn't certain how much he would ever tell them about his life. _There's little I can reveal without making them a target_. 

            Sark shook that thought from his head. _That doesn't matter right now._

            For now, he had to eliminate Halzden without getting caught.

            Halzden was holed up in a club that acted as a front for the Hierarchy. The club was on the banks of the Fontanka River. 

            Sark dressed appropriately for both clubbing and assassinating: all black. Black pants, black shirt, and black leather jacket—it turned several heads.

            The "security" hardly glanced at him as he went in. Sark didn't mind that.

            The bass vibrated the whole building. Sensuous music and dancing fools surrounded him. Sark cut through the hoard and past the blue lights flashing to the music.

            He went up a flight of stairs to a floor that overlooked the stage. Sark passed couples who flirted and drank while he moved by with purpose. 

            A guard stood by a closed door, and Sark strolled up to him.

            "I need to see your boss," Sark said with a smile. His politeness threw the guard, but as Sark tried to get by, the guard grabbed Sark's arm.

            Sark reacted with no hesitation; he elbowed the guard, spun around on his heel and followed up by drawing his gun. He fired, loud. The guard groaned, and slumped to the floor. Club patrons screamed and scattered.

            Sark didn't care. He just kicked the guard's unconscious body aside and opened the door. It led to another flight of stairs. As he climbed, he noticed he had to have gone a few stories up, but with no other floors to access.

            _Private stairwell?__ Interesting._ He finally came to a sole door. Sark tightened his hold on his gun. With one hand on the door knob, Sark flung the door open and quickly went through. 

            Five bored guards quickly got to their feet, but Sark fired off five shots before they could even get him in their sights.

            Shouting. Panic. Footsteps. It reminded him of Nicaragua. Sark followed the pandemonium. 

            He heard someone shout an order. The voice was familiar—a tight and precise Swedish accent. Sark grinned.

            Three bodyguards spilled into Sark's path. Their guns were drawn, and as the first shot went off, Sark dropped to the floor.

            He returned fire, hitting the men but not killing them. When they were down, Sark stood up and kicked their weapons out of reach as he moved on.

            Halzden zigzagged around, and finally Sark heard a door clang shut ahead of him. Sark started to run in pursuit. He found the door; it was a roof access.

            _Perfect_.

            Sark kicked the door open. The air swept by him, bringing a chill and the sounds of sirens. Shouts came from the street below, both from fleeing clubbers and eager authorities.

            Sark shut the sounds out. His eyes shifted around, looking for his target. He walked around on the roof, unafraid and bold. 

            He heard the click right behind his head, and froze.

            "Drop your weapon," Halzden demanded, pressing the gun against Sark's head. Sark smirked at that, but obeyed. "Who sent you?"

            The smirk grew, and Sark slowly turned around.

            "Don't you recognize me?" Sark said. His blue eyes sparkled in the darkness. He was ready for this, even eager for this revenge.

            "Mr. Sark," Halzden said. Confidence dawned on the man, and he had the audacity to look smug. "I didn't recognize you without the bruises."

            Sark smirked at that too. "The scars are there still, if that makes you feel better."

            Halzden waved the gun at him. "Back up." Sark obeyed, moving back until his feet were just a meter from the edge of the rooftop. He could hear the Fontanka River below him.

            "You were foolish to come after me, Mr. Sark. I'm disappointed, but also delighted that I have this opportunity." Halzden's eyes darkened with the evil that Sark knew, and Sark watched as his finger tightened on trigger.

            Shouts interrupted the execution. Russian authorities rushed to stop Halzden and capture them both. But Halzden was determined. He faced Sark, and pulled the trigger.

            The bullet hit his chest. Sark stumbled back, right to the edge. He glared at Halzden and heard everything within him cry out for revenge. Halzden pulled the trigger again, just before the authorities tackled him.

            The second bullet ripped into his shoulder. The impact pushed Sark's body backwards, and he could only look up as he fell. He saw police looking over the edge, and they got farther and farther away until they disappeared.

            Sark's body hit the river, and the river pulled it into the current and under the surface.

            The article was interesting. Baffling, really. It screamed of being doctored by intelligence agencies, with all the strategic information left out. 

            The report detailed a shootout between unknown terrorists at a club by the Fontanka River in St. Petersburg. One was shot to death. Authorities apprehended the other.

            A far-away photo of Halzden accompanied the story, but the caption didn't reveal his name. The reporter managed to scoop other papers, and knew the Russian government was transferring the terrorist today.

            The transferring vehicles drove by. Three vans, all identical.

            Suddenly the third van exploded. Russian citizens screamed, and the heat filtered out over them.

            He smiled, and stood up. Sark chucked the paper in a trash can, and then disappeared from the chaotic scene.

            The fall from the club's rooftop was unexpected, but lucky too. When he fell into the river, it was the perfect testimony to the authorities. Halzden shot Sark twice, and his body was lost to the river. 

            Only one bullet actually hurt Sark. It was the second shot; a Kevlar vest only covers so much. Sark flexed his right shoulder, feeling the soreness from the healing gun shot. 

            His cell phone rang, and Sark looked at the caller's number. _Irina_. He smirked at that. Just the fact that she was calling said she didn't buy his supposed death. But Sark didn't care what she believed. Sark threw the phone out his car window as he continued to speed along to a private airfield.


	13. Part Thirteen

a/n : Thanks to sallene for her help! See the end of the chapter for a spoiler for the next story.

Part Thirteen

            Sydney was home. From across the street, he watched her. She was chatting on the phone, quite happily. Sark knew word had circulated around the intelligence community that he was dead.

            _Sydney has to know already_. 

            And obviously, it didn't affect her.

            _Why should it? She was right._ He pushed her away. Sark leaned his head against the headrest of his car, thinking back to their encounter in the Galway cemetery.

            "_Has it not dawned on you why I'm here?"_

_            "Yes," Sark had said. "You're here to save me. And I don't need you for that."_

            He shuddered at himself for being so blind. _She wasn't trying to save or change me._

_            I've already changed.  _Sydney saw that. _And she wanted me to recognize that._

            Sark glanced back at Sydney's apartment. She was sitting on a couch, eating ice cream.

            Sark smiled at that. After a long last look at her, Sark started the car and drove off.

            His family's house was lit up in the night; all the lights seemed to be on. Sark got out of his car, and walked up to the door. His finger hovered over the door bell, but he finally pushed it.

            As he waited, it dawned on him that he'd done it. He left it behind—spying, stealing, killing. He smiled. _No more torture, no more flying constantly, no more being hunted by overconfident governments and terrorists._

            The front door opened, and there stood his brother.

            "Uh," Calvin stammered, "Come in." Sark nodded. "Mom, Dad, it's, uh, Julian."

            Sark didn't miss the skepticism in his brother's voice.

            _Brother._ That sounded weird to him, but he followed Calvin in anyway. His parents quickly came to the foyer.

            "Hi," Sark said. His mom hugged him, and Sark saw that her eyes were starting to tear up. His father ushered them into the family room.

            The four of them sat, staring at the ground. Sark ran a hand through his hair and took a deep breath.

            "Where's Ilene?" he asked. His father cleared his throat.

            "She's at work, but she'll be home soon. She's a nurse's assistant at the hospital."

            "Really?" Sark said. He had no idea what any of his family did anymore.

            "Yes, she studies at Oxford during the school year," his mom filled in proudly. 

            The silence settled back on them again.

            His father broke out. "I have to know what happened to you," he blurted out. "We thought you were _dead_, for eight years. And then one day we just find you in our home."

            "Henry!" his mother said, scolding her husband. Sark had actually forgotten his father's name. He tried to remember his mother's . . . _Barbara?_

            "I'd like to know too," Calvin interjected with a raised hand. Sark smiled at that, but the smile disappeared when he realized they were all waiting for answers.

            "Um," Sark started, "well, obviously a lot has happened. Why don't you ask your questions, and I'll try to answer what I can."

            His father started.

            "When you came last time, you shocked us, and then left us astounded. But we've tried to figure out what we could," he said. "How were your teeth in that burning car?"

            Sark took a deep breath. "I had them extracted." The three people before him just stared at him. "Next question?"

            His mother spoke next. "So where have you been all this time?"

            "A variety of countries. All over, really," Sark sort of answered. 

            Calvin went next. "Did you leave on purpose?"

            Sark opened his mouth to answer, but nothing came out. He was rescued by Ilene, who stumbled in the door.

            "I'm home! Who's here?" she yelled. She came in, and her face lit up when she saw Sark.

            "Julian!" She ran to him, and he stood to greet her. She practically leaped into his arms, and hugged him so tight that the pressure aggravated his shoulder. He suppressed a groan, and gingerly touched the gun shot wound after he was released.

            "Hello, Ilene," he said. 

            "I'm so glad you're back!" Her smile was so bright and enthusiastic that it made Sark nervous.

            "We were just asking your brother some questions," his father said. Sark nodded, albeit less than enthusiastically. 

            "Oh great! What have you been doing?" Ilene asked. Her cheeriness was astounding. It was almost annoying, but Sark knew she was really just glad to have him back.

            That lump in his throat threatened him. Sark cleared it away with a cough. 

            "Well, I've been in the . . . international relations field," Sark said. His mother's eyes gleamed at that.

            "Really? Is that like diplomacy?"

            Sark sighed to himself, and looked at the floor. Of all the torture and interrogations he'd ever been through, this was the worse. He couldn't force himself to lie to them. Just looking at them threatened to make Sark spill all.

            But he knew he couldn't, to protect them.

            Suddenly he felt like Sydney. He shook that thought away.

            "Listen," he started. "I know you have a million questions. I know I've been gone for a long time, and there's no easy way to make up for that." Sark swallowed, pausing for a moment. "But there are certain things that I just cannot tell you."

            His father cleared his throat, effectively getting everyone's attention.

            "Julian," he said, "did you get mixed up in drugs?" Sark almost laughed at that, but the suspenseful silence that followed showed him how shocked his family would be if they ever knew the truth.

            Sark smiled at his father. "No, no drugs."

            The sighs of relief were instantaneous. 

            "Julian, we know this will take some time," his mother said. "But we're just glad you're back."

            Sark smiled. "It's good to be home." 

            Ilene stood abruptly. "Well, it's late, and we should get some rest." Sark stood, and started to head for the door.

            "Where are you going?" his mother asked. Sark was perplexed. "You're staying here."

            "Oh, I don't want to intrude," he said automatically. He mentally slapped himself. _They're your parents! And you intruded last time, remember? _His parents, graciously, didn't pick up on that.

            "Nonsense!" his mother said, taking his arm. "Your room is all ready."

            "I've got some things in my car," Sark replied. "I'll be right back."

            Once in his room, Sark shut the door and flopped on to the bed. He felt completely exhausted. The mixture of tension and happiness were just too much for him. _I'm used to tense situations, but this is completely different_. It was entirely foreign to him—the kindness, the concern . . . the _love_.

            Well, from his mother and sister, anyway. But he didn't blame his father and brother for being cautious.

            Maybe that caution was in his blood.

            Sark got up and started to get undressed. He kicked off his shoes, and tossed his jacket to the side. The blue button-down came next—he put it on top of the desk chair, and suddenly froze.

            He used to do that when he was a teen—the exact same place and way. Since then, he meticulously hung everything up.

            His bizarre memory was interrupted with a knock on the door. Before Sark could say anything, Calvin poked his head in.

            "Julian, Mom asked—" Calvin stopped mid-sentence when he saw Sark's bare chest. Sark scrambled to get a shirt on, but he stopped. It was useless now anyway—Calvin saw the scars and wound.

            Sark averted his eyes, while Calvin tried to figure out anything. 

            "Come on in, Calvin," Sark finally said, waving the younger man in. Calvin came, with towels in his arms. He shut the door behind him.

            "Uh, Mom told me to bring you these," he said nervously. His eyes kept shifting over the scars. "Are you okay?"

            The question came softly, almost in a frightened manner. Sark only nodded.

            "Do you need something for that one?" Calvin asked, nodding to the gauzed gun shot wound. Sark shook his head.

            "I have what I need in my bag." 

            Sark wondered what his brother thought of him. "Calvin, I never answered your question earlier, about if I left on purpose." Sark swallowed. "I did. I left for a different life. And I've had eight years of mistakes and pain since then."

            Calvin gulped and nodded, trying to understand. Sark knew he didn't, but appreciated the effort.

            "If you don't mind, keep this to yourself," Sark said. Calvin nodded quickly again.

            He stood up, and went for the door. "I'll let you, um, get some rest." He was half-way out the door when he turned back.

            "Julian." Sark looked to his brother. "I'm glad you're back."

            Every person had a routine. Whether you are a spy, a housewife, a nurse, an engineer, or even a circus performer, you have a routine. 

            The routine of Sark's family was intriguing at first, but the normalcy and boredom of it was starting to freak him out. Family meals, pleasant talk, going to see a film . . . 

            Sark didn't know what to do or how to react. He just smiled and nodded. Life was fueled by purpose, purpose that Sark couldn't find.

            He loved being back, but figuring out how to adjust to normalcy was probably the hardest thing he'd ever encountered.

            His mother constantly doted on him, a fact Sark was embarrassed to admit. Sark just tried to politely accept the affection his family bestowed. 

            Despite his parents' protests, Sark moved to an apartment in the city. "I'm 24, and I've been on my own since I was 16," Sark told them. "I'll be fine."

            Even so, he was invited for dinner nearly every night. Poor Calvin was tired of eating in the formal dining room, a detail his mother insisted on despite Sark's promises of it not being necessary.

            Sark excused himself from dinner one night, saying he was going on a walk while dessert was prepared. 

            He sighed and left the house. He often went on walks, to think and clear his head. This time he headed to a nearby park. 

            It wasn't long before he heard the clicking of shoes behind him. He ignored it at first, until he realized the footsteps followed him. 

            Sark turned abruptly, and his jaw dropped.

            "Sydney."

            She looked stunning, as always. Her long leather coat did amazing things to her already fit and intoxicating frame. Her hair floated in the Irish wind.

            "I hope you don't mind that I didn't believe you were dead," she said. Sark smiled, and quickly scanned the area for CIA.

            "What gave me away?"

            She closed the distance between them. "You're not sloppy enough to be killed. But don't worry," she said. "The CIA bought it."

            Sark grinned at that.

            They started walking, around the park as kids finished up games of soccer. Silence consumed the space between them, until one of them got up the nerve to talk.

            "How does it feel to be back home?" Sydney asked. Sark smirked at that.

            "Awkward, at best," Sark answered. "But I guess I'll adjust."

            Sydney didn't answer for a moment, and Sark glanced at her from the corner of his eye. She looked pensive, as if focusing on a specific memory.

            "My father was absent for most of my life. My mother lied to me and faked her death," she said. "But I have been able to endure some normal moments with them. It were hard at first—awkward. But now, I cherish those moments."

            Sark stopped his pace, thinking that over. "Thank you." As he thought about it, Sydney's family was the epitome of dysfunctionality. However, she was able to make the most of it. Despite how horrible her life must have been growing up and also when she knew the truth about her parents, she moved on. _And she loves both of her parents, even if one of them is an international terrorist_.

            Sydney started walking again, prompting Sark to keep up with her. He did, only to stop again.

            "Sydney, I feel I owe you an apology." He faced her. "I realize you were only trying to help before, at the cemetery."

            Sydney tucked her hair behind her ears. 

            "In Burma," she started, "I never meant to make you feel . . . abhorred, for choosing your life. It was wrong for me to be so judgmental."

            "Sydney—" 

            She placed a hand over his mouth, and finally looked him in the eyes. Her brown eyes held such softness, such . . . _care._

            "Sark," she said softly, "despite how hard you tried to hide it, I could tell you were a good person."

            He nearly blushed at that. Sark and 'good' were rarely used in the same sentence. He allowed himself to give her a grateful nod before turning his nervous gaze to the park and evening sky.

            "You're not here to stay, are you?" Sark said after awhile. Sydney shook her head.

            "Just a visit, without the CIA's knowledge." She turned to face him, but kept her eyes on the ground. 

            "I'm glad you came." His admission was quiet, and almost lost in the breeze, but she heard it. Sydney leaned toward him until her lips pressed against his. 

            Sark encircled her with his arms, pulling her closer to him. The warmth between them only fueled the kiss.

            When Sydney pulled back, Sark just stared at her for a moment, dazed. He knew he must have looked puzzled, but also happier than he'd ever seemed.

            "Are you sure you can't stay?"

            Sydney laughed, and took his arm. They continued walking.

            "You know, this normal life thing calls for certain formalities," Sark said, his voice playful. He practically bounced at Sydney's side as they walked. 

            "And what formality is that?" Sydney asked, chuckling at his demeanor.

            "Introducing the woman I care for to my parents," Sark declared proudly.

            Sydney just laughed and tightened her hold on his arm.

            "Anything I should keep in mind when I meet them, Sark?" Sydney asked, teasing him. Sark's lips curled upward, and he shot her an admiring gaze.

            "Just do me one favor: call me Julian."

The End

Coming soon: **Ultimate Sacrifice (title subject to change)**

The phone rang, and Calvin answered while Julian dried some dishes.

            "Hello?"

            "Put Sark on the phone," a muffled voice said. Calvin looked puzzled.

            "Sark?" Calvin repeated.

            Julian snapped his head up as the alarm bells rang in his head. "Who is it, Calvin?" Calvin just shrugged, and Julian crossed the kitchen to him. He took the phone.

            "Who is this?" he demanded.

            "Mr. Sark," the voice replied. "If you want to see Ilene again, be at the London Tower at midnight." The caller hung up, but Julian just hung on to the phone, his blue eyes freezing over.

            "Julian?" That was his mother. "Is everything okay?"

            "Julian?" Calvin tried to snap him out of his cold gaze. "Who is Sark?"


End file.
